


terms & conditions apply

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Comedy, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, No Pushing Daisies Knowledge Required, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: The facts were these: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd died on a late autumn night. His cause of death ruled as a homicide, due to multiple stab wounds in his chest causing extensive blood loss. Sylvain, owner ofThe Pie Shop, part time private investigator, knows just the trick to bring him back, with a small catch.First touch: life. Second touch: death. Forever this time.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	terms & conditions apply

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a long couple months of sitting on this fic, and I’m so excited to be able to share my contribution to the dimivain big bang! 
> 
> just to make a few things explicitly clear, there's no graphic violence in this fic, but there are detailed discussions about murder, and death, and you don't need to have any prior knowledge of pushing daisies to be able to enjoy the story!

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, the room lit in blindingly bright white light. The stench of chemicals from heavy duty sterilizers burn his nose, but Sylvain can hardly pay it any heed. His blood is pounding in his ears, drowning out the buzzing of the air conditioner, the cold, stale air being pumped in making him feel like he’s choking even as he stands stockstill, hands at his sides, breathing evenly.

He hears Felix like he’s underwater, voice bland, monotone, as he reads out the final notations made by the medical examiner about the victim, the folder handed off before the examiner had left them to their own devices, alone, save for the man laying in front of them on a silvered, metal slab.

“Dimitri A. Blaiddyd. Born on the 20th of the Ethereal Moon. Aged twenty-five. Cause of death: organ failure and blood loss.”

There’s a sheet covering the victim from the waist down, showcasing the sewed up stab wound making a jagged _X_ across his chest. He should be unfamiliar to Sylvain. There’s no reason that Sylvain should have any idea who he is—no reason for his chest to feel like it's constricting as he stares down at a peaceful face, lashes brushing the tops of pale cheeks as he lays still, completely lifeless.

“No sign of a weapon at the scene. No current suspects.”

Sylvain wishes Felix had told him who they were going to investigate before being brought into this room. He could’ve at least braced himself, or attempted to. The victim’s been dead for less than a day, looking all the parts of someone sleeping, except for the unnatural stillness of his chest.

The last time Sylvain had seen him, he still had baby fat. There had been no sign of the scarring on his right eye, no believable chance that he would grow up into a man with roguishly handsome features even in death.

“. . .besides the unusual spot of where they found him—. Sylvain? Are you listening?”

Felix’s voice goes snappish, irritated, and Sylvain jolts, wrenching his eyes away from Dimitri to look to him. His palms are sweaty, panic starting to lace its way up his spine, threatening to steal his breath.

It must show on his face. The sharp edges of Felix’s scowl softens, his brows pinching as his gaze darts over Sylvain.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sylvain’s mouth opens. His throat is dry. His jaw closes and he looks back down to Dimitri, trying to process that this man is, in fact, the same boy who lived in the fancy house across the street from him. The same sweet, little kid that always wanted to play with Sylvain, and never seemed to mind when Sylvain would crawl out of his room and climb the tree outside his window to hide for the night with him.

The same little boy whose father Sylvain had killed to bring _Miklan_ back to life.

“Sylvain.”

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, Felix’s fingertips digging in through the thick material of his hoodie. Sylvain takes a deep breath, closes his eyes.

“I know him.”

Felix’s hand flexes against his shoulder as he processes that information. There’s silence, the humming of the air conditioner the only noise between them.

“You do?”

Felix’s voiced question is hesitant, laced with something Sylvain’s too busy to place without looking for any of his standard facial cues. In the four years they’ve been doing this together, Sylvain’s never felt so rattled. He’s always been slightly uncomfortable, but it is a good thing, he knows. Bringing what little peace he can to those who died in the worst ways.

He just has never had to see a familiar face laying before him.

“I haven’t seen him since I was twelve,” Sylvain says, rolling his shoulders, fists still stuffed in his pockets. “At his father’s funeral.”

There’s another pause, the silence stretching. He doesn’t need to explain—Felix already knows.

“This was before boarding school, I’m guessing.”

Sylvain nods, glancing over to him. Felix stares down at Dimitri— _the victim_ —with an expression Sylvain’s unused to seeing in these situations. Felix never looks conflicted. He’s always been straightforward and blunt. He’s got his questioning routine down to the second, able to gather what he needs all before the sixty seconds, their lone minute, is up.

“When was your brother buried?” asks Felix, voice soft.

“Two days before Dimitri’s dad,” Sylvain answers.

The funeral for Miklan had been hasty, an _embarrassing affair_ according to his father. Nothing at all like the proper, drawn out procession of Lambert Blaiddyd’s funeral.

Sylvain doesn’t quite remember what excuse they had used after they found Miklan in Sylvain’s room. After Miklan had grabbed him by the throat before keeling over.

First touch life, Sylvain learned that day. Second touch death. Forever, this time.

He has so many questions on how Dimitri ended up here, on a slab in a morgue in the city two hours away from the town they had grown up in. He wants to know what happened to his eye—the scarring of it tells him it’s an old injury, not sustained at the same time as the stab wounds that killed him.

Sylvain wants to know if Dimitri’s thought of Sylvain as much as he has of him.

The first few years he had spent at boarding school, all he could think about was Dimitri. He struggled to make deep enough connections with the other students to call them _friends_ , always thinking back to what he could’ve done differently. He hadn’t known when he brought Miklan back the true capabilities he had—or the cost.

He doubts Dimitri thought of him at all. He couldn’t know the true reason his father keeled over while on their front lawn fifteen years ago. He doubts the memories of his childhood _before_ that had been potent enough to carry with him through the abrupt changes his life had gone through after.

Felix’s jaw is working as he stares down at Dimitri. The look on his face isn’t one Sylvain enjoys seeing. Brows furrowed over his eyes, scowl fierce enough Sylvain’s surprised he isn’t already starting to get wrinkles.

“Sylvain.”

“Felix.”

“Are your personal feelings going to get involved in this?”

The question is tight, laced with an underlying threat. It doesn’t take Sylvain as off guard as it should.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been considering it as soon as the sheet was tugged down to reveal spun gold hair.

“I’m not sure,” he answers, softly.

The glare Felix pins him with is lethal. “You’re ‘ _not sure_?’”

Sylvain shrugs. His palms are still sweating, worse now where he’s fisted them in his pockets. “I have a minute to decide, don’t I?” he offers, trying for lighthearted and landing face first.

Felix’s jaw clenches. “The only other person in this room is _me_ , Sylvain.”

Sylvain blinks. That _is_ something he hadn’t factored in. If he brings Dimitri back, someone will have to go. He knows it won’t be him, if the choice is laid out.

After a moment, when he exhales slowly, Sylvain shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “You’re right. I’m being selfish.”

He’s not sure if it’s the phrasing or his tone, but Felix’s scowl deepens.

“Sylvain,” he repeats, carefully. “You just have to ask him who killed him. That’s it. You don’t even need to ask him, if it’s going to upset you. Just touch him and let me talk.”

“You hate talking to strangers,” Sylvain tells him, half joking, and barrels on before Felix can yell at him for the newest deflection. “No, no, I’ll do it. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

The quiet between them stretches unbroken while Sylvain tries to will himself to pull his hand from his pocket. Felix shifts his weight, arms crossed over his chest, his stare piercing into the side of Sylvain’s head.

“I need a minute.”

He doesn’t look, but he sees Felix’s nod in his peripheral. Better he take _this_ minute than panic while Dimitri’s awake— _alive,_ breathing, his eyes as bright and blue as he remembered from his childhood.

Well, eye.

Fuck, Sylvain really wants to know what happened to him.

He takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. _Rip the bandage off_ , he tells himself. Just a light tap, that’s all he’ll have to do. Felix will ask the questions, Sylvain just has to stay out of his vision so that Dimitri doesn’t see him until Sylvain puts him back to rest.

Eternally.

His eyes fly open. He doesn’t even give Felix the standard warning so he can start the timer. He reaches out, barely hearing Felix’s rough swear as he hastily goes for his phone.

As soon as his fingertips brush Dimitri’s cheek—his _cheek_ of all places, as if Sylvain has any right to caress him like a lover—Dimitri’s left eye snaps open. He gasps in a breath as he sits up, Sylvain stumbling back out of reach before they accidentally touch.

“Dimitri Blaiddyd—,” Felix begins, but Dimitri’s eye lands on Sylvain, focusing _only_ on Sylvain.

There’s the flicker of recognition on his face, his lips parting, eyebrows coming together. Both of them are tuning Felix out, his questions growing more insistent as the seconds start to tick by.

“Sylvain.”

There’s _mourning_ in Dimitri’s tone, and Sylvain lets out a shaky exhale, unsure if the lump in his throat is from nerves or the fact that Dimitri _remembers_ him.

“Hi, Dimitri.”

“Sylvain,” Felix all but growls. “Focus!”

Sylvain shakes his head, trying to snap himself out of his stupor. “Dimitri. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Dimitri stares at him, just keeps staring, and Felix growls, marching forward. Sylvain catches sight of the timer on his phone. Thirty seconds left.

“Who killed you?”

“Killed me?” Dimitri asks, voice hitching as he looks to Felix. “What do you mean, ‘ _killed?_ ’”

“You were _stabbed,_ Dimitri,” Sylvain says. “Do you remember by who?”

“No, I—I was out with a friend. I don’t remember getting home, but I wasn’t _stabbed_ —”

Felix lets out a noise of frustration. Dimitri doesn’t remember. They have ten seconds left. Dimitri doesn’t remember who stabbed him, but he remembers _Sylvain_.

Fifteen years did nothing.

“Sylvain—”

Felix is starting to panic. The timer ticks in time with his pulse, racing in his veins. Sylvain starts to reach out, back towards Dimitri, who’s still watching him, confused and lost, an echo of the last time Sylvain had seen him.

Five.

_I’m going to live with my uncle. He lives hours away from here._

Four.

_We can write, can’t we?_

Three.

_I don’t want this to be the last time we meet, Sylvain._

Two.

Even at ten, Dimitri had been far too grown up for his own good.

One.

Sylvain steps back, out of reach, letting his hand drop. He barely hears the sound of the timer dropping to zero over the—rightfully enraged—shout of his name falling from Felix’s lips. There’s a brief moment of tension as Felix stares at Sylvain, looking like he wants nothing more than Sylvain to burn alive.

And then there’s a crash from the other room.

Sylvain blinks, looking towards the doorway, stepping further back from Dimitri as he shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket.

The medical examiner had left Felix and Sylvain on their own. They hadn’t gone far enough. Through the thudding of his heart, Sylvain isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry.

Of _course_ they hadn’t gone far enough.

After all, Dimitri’s father had been across the street when Sylvain had brought Miklan back.

“You’re alive,” he tells Felix, throat thick, chest aching with diluted panic.

Felix scowls. “Someone else isn’t,” he states.

He moves quickly as Dimitri looks around in a confused set of motions, seeming to take stock of his current situation. His fingers reach up to trace the newly sewn wound on his chest, his expression morphing as he takes it all in. Felix is at the doorway, peering around the corner, and when he finds the source of the crash, he sighs, a frustrated noise falling from his lips. He bends down, picking up a cell phone.

Sylvain doesn’t need to move close to know that it’s set to record.

“We were too noisy,” Felix declares, tone terse. He drops the phone, stepping on it and cracking the device under his heel. “At least this stays between us now.”

Sylvain swallows the lump in his throat, looking back to Dimitri, still on the slab, still only barely covered by a sheet.

“Let’s find you some clothes.”

“There are scrubs over here,” Felix states. “I don’t know what we’ll do about shoes.”

“I have a pair of sandals in my bag in the car.”

Both Felix and Dimitri pause, turning to look at Sylvain. Felix speaks first, brow furrowed, tone sharper than he probably intends it to be.

“Why do you have a pair of shoes in your bag?”

“One time, Annie’s heel broke and she didn’t have anything to change into, so I started carrying a pair around, just in case.”

Felix stares at him, a bundle of pale blue scrubs in his arms. Sylvain’s too nervous to look away from him to see Dimitri’s face, but has a feeling the same expression of blatant confusion is on his, too.

_“What?”_

“I have severe anxiety, Felix,” says Sylvain.

Felix flicks his eyes in a roll, passing the bundle off to Dimitri, who accepts it, but doesn’t move, still just glancing between him and Sylvain. “That means you carry shoes in your _knapsack_?”

“I have to be prepared! I have a first aid kit, too!”

Felix groans, marching away from them, running his hands through his hair. “Hurry up and get dressed, Blaiddyd, the sooner we get out of here, the better.”

He’s right, Sylvain knows. A medical examiner falling over in death was an entire thing if that was their only issue. Now, they’ve added the new problem of a supposed dead man walking out of a morgue.

Sylvain gives Dimitri a small, sheepish smile that Dimitri returns with his own nervous twitch of his lips. “I think it’s cute, that you have shoes on hand.”

The laugh Sylvain lets out is ragged, exhaustion starting to thrum through him. “I’ll go grab those sandals for you.”

Sylvain starts to follow after Felix, who is in the doorway, already on his phone making a call. He stops when Dimitri calls after him, just a soft, broken whisper of his name.

“Sylvain?”

Sylvain glances over his shoulder. Dimitri’s still trying to smile, his brows still creased over his eyes.

“I’m sorry. For all of this.”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair from his eyes. “It’s not your fault, Dimitri, you don’t need to apologize.”

Dimitri’s lips part, but he pauses, reconsidering. His chin dips in a small nod. “Then, thank you.”

Sylvain exhales a shaky breath. Felix’s voice breaks the silence between them, his tone pitched to frantic, demanding help downstairs now.

They’re going to have to move quickly to get Dimitri out before the other meds get to the morgue.

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

**.**

On a busy street corner four blocks away from the city's university, in the midst of Fhirdiad's business district, sits _The Pie Hole_. The diner's layout had been hand picked by Sylvain’s dear friend Mercedes, who he probably wouldn't have survived his college years without. Her touch is everywhere within the building and without, from the lovingly chosen booth designs to the exterior's crust-inspired awning.

Sylvain had never been big on baking before Mercedes. He had grown up watching his mother stress bake, learned to associate the aroma of vanilla and sugar with fear from his father. It had taken months of getting treats from Mercie to learn to associate it with _love_ , and even longer to start learning that he actively enjoyed baking. Together they had crafted recipes, taking input from others to make what they deemed _perfect_ pies, and used Sylvain's business degree to figure out the minute details of opening the shop.

When she had moved out to the countryside a few years ago, she had left the shop with only three main employees and the remaining touch of her presence lingering within.

Including the cups they’re currently drinking tea out of, sitting in one of the booths pressed to the rounded wall, Sylvain far too aware of where his body is in regards to Dimitri.

It’s late enough that the only lights in the shop are the dimmed overheads, the street outside mostly empty save for a few cars here and there. Sylvain sits beside Felix at the edge of his seat, prepped to move and flee whenever the need arises. Dimitri sits across from them closer to the window, hair half tied up out of his face, wearing a pair of scrubs they had stolen from the morgue.

Sylvain’s finished explaining most of what’s going on. Felix has filled in the more gruesome details that he hasn’t had the heart to tell Dimitri. His face has been crumpled with emotion since they had left the morgue, Felix already hastily figuring out a way to weasel them out of being involved in the medical examiner’s death.

Now, Dimitri stares down at his cup of tea, hands wrapped around the mug. Sylvain’s mirrored him, the warmth seeping through the ceramic against his palm close enough that he could easily lie to himself and say it’s coming from a human.

“. . .so we can’t touch? At all?”

Sylvain shakes his head, swallowing the lump that’s closing his throat at how mournful Dimitri sounds at that. “Not unless you want to be dead forever.” His voice comes out fragile, the teasing tone he tries to force out resulting in a side-eye from Felix and Dimitri’s face falling.

“I see.”

There’s a long moment of silence between them. Felix’s phone _blips_ , screen lighting up. He picks the device up, frowning down at it before he sighs. “I have to go. This is going to take a bit of paperwork.”

“A bit?” Sylvain asks, sliding out of the booth to free him.

Felix just huffs, his glare looking more worn down than harsh. “A bit,” he repeats, before making his way out of the diner.

Sylvain follows him, locking the door behind him. Dimitri’s still sitting at the booth, staring down at the mug in his grasp. _Processing_. Sylvain watches him for a moment before he clears his throat, startling Dimitri into looking up.

“I know it’s been a long night,” he says, treading lightly as he makes his way back towards the booth. “Should we call it?”

Dimitri watches him carefully, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he blinks, looking like he’s just realized a question has been asked of him.

“Oh! I suppose it is rather late. Getting some rest would be good.”

Sylvain smiles—he’s always been good at smiling—and motions for Dimitri to follow him as he gathers their cups. Sylvain makes his way through the small, swing pony door that leads into the back, Dimitri a few steps behind him.

While Sylvain is used to the back, he hears Dimitri pause, his hand still on the top of the door, his eye looking around as Sylvain heads to the sink to wash their dishes.

He supposes this is the place that would be the most interesting. People can get a good look at the baker’s table in the centre of the room from the stools at the rounded counter. The archway gives anyone who sits at the counter a perfect view of where Sylvain spends most of his mornings prepping doughs and fillings all across the wooden block.

It’s completely clean now. Dedue had finished closing a couple hours ago, despite looking anxious when Sylvain had left to help Felix. It was unsettling to see one of his few friends looking distressed, especially Dedue, but Sylvain had known better than to push him into talking.

Besides, Annie had cornered Dedue right before Sylvain left them to close, their voices too soft for him to listen in on as Felix rushed him out of the shop, and if there was any of them that would be able to comfort him, it would be Annie.

“I never took you for the baking type,” Dimitri murmurs, once the faucet’s off.

Sylvain huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t think any twelve year old can be classified as the baking type.”

Dimitri chuckles at that, a nervous exhale as his cheeks colour with a sheepish blush. “I suppose that’s true. Your mother bakes, right?”

Sylvain makes a non-committal noise, pairing it with a shrug. “She did sometimes, yeah. It was—ah, stress relief, I think.”

A soft noise from Dimitri as he looks towards Sylvain. He’s hovering in front of the batch oven, taking in more of the room, but the look he gives Sylvain pins him to his spot.

“Do you not speak with her?”

“Nah, not really.”

Sylvain forces a smile on his face. Dimitri frowns.

“I don’t really talk with either of them anymore. My dad’s not thrilled with the course I took for my life.”

Dimitri lifts a hand, and Sylvain has a moment of heart stopping fear. Unreasonable, he knows, since Dimitri is all the way on the other side of the room, but his breath still catches in his throat at the gesture.

After that split second, though, Dimitri’s hand drops. “I’m sorry,” he says, another unneeded apology.

Sylvain is all too happy to shrug this one off. “Don’t worry about it,” he declares. “C’mon, let’s head upstairs.”

The night that greets them when they slip out the side entrance of the bakery is brisk. Dimitri shivers slightly, and Sylvain wishes he could offer some warmth to him. All he can do is hurry them along, the streetlights painting the alleyway with an unnatural glow. Overhead, the sky is clear, and the few stars they can see shine stubbornly, twinkling through the city's light pollution. A siren sounds in the distance as they reach the desperately grandiose entrance to the apartments, the lobby lights flickering slightly as they make their way inside the building.

They’re quiet, for a bit. Sylvain’s mind races through everything he could possibly say that could ease the awkward, awful atmosphere of what’s transpired tonight.

Dimitri breaks it first, gently, with a soft clearing of his throat as they make their way up the stairwell.

“It’s convenient that you live right upstairs. Must make it easier on you.”

“Me and Annie—one of my workers. She’s right next door. I planned it that way, though. I moved into the apartment first when they were remodelling the commercial space and put my foot in the door to claim it.”

Dimitri hums along to his explanation, following him dutifully a few paces back as they climb the stairs. Sylvain is desperate to get the attention off of him, glancing over his shoulder to look at him.

“So, how about your family life?”

“Hm?”

“You still on good terms with your uncle?”

The startled noise Dimitri makes at the question gives him the true answer, but Dimitri follows it up with a nervous chuckle.

“Not exactly,” he says, tone telling Sylvain that if he pressed, Dimitri would talk more, but wouldn’t be happy about it.

He delves off topic, saving them both from falling face first into a pit their first night upon being reunited again.

“I have to get up early for work,” he says, breezily, “but you can sleep in if you want.”

They cross in front of Annette’s front door on their way to Sylvain’s apartment, her little one bedroom at the end of the hall by the stairwell. He wonders if she managed to convince Dedue to take an easy night at her apartment, or if he stayed stubborn in his ways and headed to his own home on the other side of the city.

“Would I be able to watch you in the morning?” Dimitri questions. “I’ve never seen how a bakery works except for some random shows my college roommate used to watch.”

“Oh—.” Sylvain startles, fumbling his keys in the door. He’s not sure why the question brings heat to his face, but he tries to play it off, clearing his throat and getting the door unlocked. “I mean, yeah, if you want. It might be boring.”

“I doubt that, but thank you, I would love to watch.”

Sylvain hums, pushing the door open, and stepping aside to let Dimitri in. He apologizes, not for the first time that evening, when Sylvain holds the door open for him, leaning away from his body when he crosses the threshold. Sylvain informs him, again, that he has nothing to apologize for.

“It’s not your fault we can’t touch,” he says, trying for cheerful but landing closer towards exhaustion. “C’mon, though, you can at least have a nice shower before bed.”

Dimitri nods, looking mostly out of it. “Bed. . .right.”

Sylvain can’t find it in him to fault him for it.

Dimitri follows him at a distance as he makes his way through his apartment.

It’s not a large apartment, but he did splurge for the two bedrooms instead of a single one like Annette has. It makes it easier if any of his friends needed somewhere to crash in the city for the night. Except now his only friends are practically those he works with, and if Dedue’s going to crash at anyone’s after a long night, it’s not going to be at Sylvain’s anymore. He shows Dimitri the kitchen and the living room, all neat and tidy, but still welcoming as well.

Or at least he hopes so.

What remnants of a childhood crush have been bubbling up since Sylvain had first touched Dimitri and brought him back don’t matter outside of the anxious thoughts swirling through Sylvain’s head. Regardless of how he tries to logic the thoughts away, he still feels almost shy when Dimitri stops in the doorway of his room. It’s not _messy_ —Sylvain’s neat freak side doesn’t allow that to happen—but he’s still nervous for some reason. The last person on this planet who would be able to share a bed with him is Dimitri, and not just due to the curse Sylvain’s laid on him.

Dimitri could do so much better than him, regardless of their circumstances.

He takes in a deep breath as he slips further in, heading to his dresser. The scrubs they had pilfered from the morgue aren’t going to cut it, and he already has an idea of what kind of clothes he could lend Dimitri. They’re nearly the same size, after all, Dimitri standing just slightly taller than him, his waist tapering into a slimmer cut.

They’ll have to try to slip into Dimitri’s apartment before any of his belongings are taken by whoever Dimitri listed for his next of kin, so they can get him clothes, but for now Sylvain digs out some sweats and a shirt for pajamas, holding them up for Dimitri’s approval before guiding him back into the hallway to show him to the bathroom.

“I’ll shower in the morning, so take your time,” Sylvain tells him, still trying to pitch cheerfulness into his voice. He wonders if he sounds like Annette, forcefully trying to barrel through the day with a smile on her face, but he stuffs that thought down before it can fully form, laying the clothes out on the counter.

Dimitri nods, murmuring a thanks. They step around each other, careful, the distance between them more painful than Sylvain’s felt since the day he was packed up and shipped to boarding school.

They haven’t even caught up that much. It’s just been nothing but nonstop for Dimitri since Sylvain had brought him back in that damned morgue. Sylvain hasn’t even asked him if he’s _hungry_ , just foisted tea on him as soon as they got to the shop so he’d have something to do with his hands that was away from the only other humans in proximity.

Before Dimitri can close the bathroom door, Sylvain stops him with a soft _oh, hold on_. Dimitri pauses, looking to him, blinking that bright blue eye at him in guileless curiosity.

It takes Sylvain a moment to find the words. It’s obvious from the signs of physical trauma Dimitri’s life has not been the easiest these past fifteen years. Beyond the scar on his eye, there’s the way he holds himself, poised and tensed. He had been _stabbed to death_ by some unknown assailant. He has no idea how he could possibly tell this man that he mourns the boys they used to be, but is so unbelievably happy that he is here, back and alive even _if_ that means Sylvain cannot act on the impulse to scoop him into a tight hug.

“Sylvain. . .?”

Sylvain’s eyes close as he jolts, shaking his head slightly. “Um—just. The faucet’s fucked, it’s the opposite of what it says. Hot equals cold; cold equals hot.” He tries for a smile. “And if you’re hungry or anything, you’ve got free reign of the kitchen.”

Dimitri blinks at him, his face still morphed into that tidbit of concern before he smiles himself. A small, fragile curl of his lips that Sylvain wants to lock up in his chest. He wants nothing more than to protect Dimitri from this cruel world that failed him.

“Thank you,” Dimitri murmurs, voice soft.

Sylvain swallows the thick lump in his throat. “Yeah, of course. No problem. Sleep well.”

Dimitri nods, that smile cracking. He’s trying to be sincere, Sylvain can tell.

They’re both trying to be sincere, both terrified of the day’s events and what happens going forward.

“You too,” Dimitri says, and steps inside the bathroom.

Sylvain stands in the hallway for a long moment after the door’s shut, trying to steady his heartbeat, inhaling a deep breath. He blows it out in a slow, billowing exhale before he turns on his heels and heads back to his bedroom. By the time he’s shutting the door most of the way, the pipes start to screech, water pumping through them.

He flops onto his bed, heart thudding, trying to will himself to calm down. Things will be fine. Felix will figure out how to cover up them basically stealing a dead body, the EMTs will assume the medical examiner had a heart attack despite Sylvain basically murdering him.

The water is still pumping through the walls, a dull roar as Sylvain buries his face in his pillow. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but he’s far too wound up. He takes a few deep breaths, shifting on the bed, and squeezes his eyes shut.

It’s then, while his heart is just _starting_ to calm, that his phone starts to ring.

He startles, looking to his nightstand. It’s nearly one in the morning, he has no idea who could be calling—

Dedue’s face is on the screen and Sylvain sits up, scrambling to answer. Dedue would never call this late unless it was a true emergency.

“I am sorry to call you this late, Sylvain.”

“Don’t apologize—what’s wrong?”

“I received some news earlier today that a friend of mine passed away. I thought I would be able to handle it, but I—” Dedue cuts off, clearing his throat, and Sylvain starts talking before he can help himself.

“Hey, no, it’s alright. I’m so sorry for your loss. Take as much time off as you need.”

“Are you certain?”

“ _Yes_ , Dedue. Annie and I can handle the shop by ourselves.” He chews on his bottom lip, debating, before going with another condolence that Dedue thanks him for. “Just worry about taking care of yourself right now, alright?”

There’s a long pause, Dedue obviously trying to figure out the best words to choose. After the moment passes, he settles on, “I will let you know when I’m planning to return.”

“There’s no need to rush,” Sylvain assures him. “Sleep well, okay?”

A sigh, heavy, the burden of mourning clear through his exhaled breath. “I shall try.”

**.**

Dimitri sits on a stool at the edge of the bakery, his gaze burning into Sylvain’s side. Not in a judgemental way, but with sheer curiosity as Sylvain breaks out the pies Dedue had prepped the night before. He has a stack of bakery pans in front of him, switching the pies from the freezer rack to the oven’s.

Normally, the morning’s prep is a two person job. He and Dedue switch off who does the night time prep so the other can come in a bit later, but since it’s just Sylvain, he has his list compiled with twice as many tasks. Dimitri’s offered a few times to assist, but Sylvain assures him he can handle it.

Dimitri’s distracting, despite it all. Sylvain chatters—because he always chatters, always fills the silence with noise, lest he get stuck in his own thoughts—but Dimitri sits, looking sunlit and radiant. The early morning light that filters in through the tall windows casts him in a pale glow, one that makes his golden hair look nearly white. He sits in borrowed clothes, standing out amongst the teal-green cabinets and counter in dark jeans and a pale sweater.

Sylvain keeps up a jovial stream of words as he goes through his tasklist, his muscle memory kicking into gear to make the work he does background to the conversation they hold. They talk about what they studied in college, Dimitri having taken a gap year out of high school to try to figure out what he wanted outside of the expectations that had been laid on him by familial obligation. Sylvain mentions having about five friends in total, which Dimitri claims is impressive considering he thinks he only has three he can count.

“Well,” Sylvain announces at that, “you can add me for a total of four.”

Dimitri laughs, a quiet chuckle, the smile on his face soft when Sylvain grins at him. “And I’d make yours up to six, then?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he says with a wink, but before they can branch off, he hears the telltale sign of the back door opening, which is odd.

It’s still early—barely six. The only other person on the schedule is Annette, who’s not due to arrive until just before they officially open doors at ten—

Annette bursts into the bakery in a rush, her bright yellow sundress tied about her waist with a sash that he assumes will be replaced with her apron when she _officially_ starts her shift. Her hair is tied atop her head in two buns, secured with scrunchies, but loose strands fall about her face that she blows away with a puff of breath as she whirls.

“Annie, what are you doing here already?” he asks, baffled.

Annette ignores him, hanging her coat on the hook by the door. “Good morning!” she greets, tone slightly terse, which confuses him, until he remembers who _is_ missing, and Annie continues with, “Did you talk to—?”

He doesn’t mean to interrupt her, but he does, cutting her off with a, “Yeah, I have. It’s not a problem—you don’t need to fill in his role.”

“Of course I do!” she insists, whirling on her heels to face him. Another strand of hair falls from one of the buns. Before she can continue with her insistent speech, her gaze lands on Dimitri, still sitting on his stool near the far counter. Her eyes widen as she blinks rapidly. “Oh. Hello.”

Dimitri lifts his hand in a small wave. Annette turns to Sylvain, her stormy blue eyes filled with confusion as she walks towards him, her head tilting.

“This is Dimitri,” he explains, to answer her unspoken question. “He’s an old friend who’s staying with me and he wanted to see how a bakery runs.”

“We’re not a _real_ bakery,” she says. “We only make pies.”

“We still bake,” he states, smiling as she huffs a breath.

“I _suppose._ ” She takes another step forward, lowering her voice, as if Dimitri couldn’t hear her even with the dull metal clanking of Sylvain moving baking pans around. “Spare hands?”

Sylvain nods. “Spare hands.” He looks over her head to Dimitri, who has a sheepish smile on his face. “Dimitri, this is Annette, my number one waitress.”

Annette makes a small face, her brows furrowing briefly. There’s gears turning in her head that he can’t even begin to follow. After a moment, though, the tense set of her shoulders relaxes, and she brightens the room with a smile. She bounds towards Dimitri, hand proffered for a shake.

“Sorry, it’s very early for me. I’m Annette and I’m the _only_ waitress here.”

Dimitri exhales a soft laugh, taking her hand in a gentle shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Annette.”

Annette nods, her chin lifting with determination burning in her eyes as she turns to Sylvain. “What do you need me to do?”

Sylvain hums in lieu of answering, rolling the rack to the oven. The burst of hot air that rushes out as he pulls the door open overpowers her voice as he slides the rack home and pushes the door shut. He sets the timer and turns to Annette, shrugging.

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing_?” she repeats, voice hitching. “I woke up early to help!”

“Annie, if I needed extra help, I would’ve called you. You can go get coffee, I guess.”

She makes a grumbled noise, practically pouting as she stomps towards her coat, muttering under her breath.

“ _Fine_ , I guess I’ll go get us coffees. Like an _intern_.”

“Hey, I’m still _paying_ you!”

“ _Still paying you,_ ” she mutters, high pitched and mocking, before she opens the door. Her _text me what you want!_ follows right before the door slams shut and Sylvain starts laughing. Dimitri looks between him and the door, bewildered and amused all at once.

“She seems nice,” he offers after a bit, hesitantly.

Sylvain quirks a brow. “I need people to put me in my place from time to time.” He dusts the flour off his hands on his apron, moving to start cleaning the table up. “So, do you have a specific coffee preference?”

They fall into a rhythm. He wouldn’t exactly call it an _easy_ rhythm, but it’s a rhythm, nonetheless. Dimitri insists on helping, if he’s to act as _spare hands_. He doesn’t ask too much about Sylvain’s other worker, though if that’s due to him being socially aware enough not to ask about a delicate topic, or too busy trying to accept his current circumstances himself.

Annette, thankfully, loves Dimitri. There’s finally someone a bit more clumsy than she is, though Dimitri’s as earnest in doing his best as Annie is. Sylvain tries to keep them _both_ out of the bakery during the day, letting Annette teach Dimitri the ropes of running the floor, handling orders and money.

He’s just glad they only serve pies.

The shock takes a few days to wear off. Dimitri goes through the motions of Sylvain’s routine like a shadow, and Sylvain waits for the inevitable.

It comes on the third night, when they sit across from each other at dinner, takeout containers scattered between on the table. Dimitri’s been picking through his food, which tells Sylvain already that something is off—he’s not normally that shy when it comes to his hunger.

“Dimitri?”

He blinks over at Sylvain, looking like he’s been tugged out of a deep thought. He gives him a sad, small smile, shaking his head. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“Don’t apologize,” says Sylvain. “What’s up?”

“I—.” Dimitri pauses, considering. “Well, it’s just. . .I realized that there’s really no going back to how I used to live, is there?”

Sylvain feels his own appetite fade at that, the sad look washing over Dimitri’s expression one Sylvain knew was coming, but still knocks the breath from his lungs.

“No,” he answers. “I’m sorry.”

Dimitri shakes his head, giving Sylvain another one of his sad smiles. “There’s no need to apologize,” he says. “I suppose I just wish I had a chance to say goodbye.”

There’s nothing Sylvain can say to that, nothing to make things right. He opts not to, settling the silence around them, a quilt that’s almost suffocating beneath the weight of it. It takes Dimitri another moment before he excuses himself, leaving Sylvain sitting at the table alone, surrounded by greasy takeout boxes and plastic cutlery.

Despite his realization, and the sorrow that came with it, Dimitri doesn’t seem to let it affect him too deeply. Outwardly, at least. He still smiles and banters lightly with Annette the following morning, more than happy to follow her lead as she continues training.

Dimitri takes to wearing gloves only a few days later. Annette thinks it’s due to how many times he’s had spills happen, and Sylvain hasn’t bothered to correct her. He wears the powdery, nitrile gloves they have on hand in the bakery during the day, and once they’ve officially closed up for the night, he switches to a pair of fine leather gloves that Felix had gotten him a couple days into his stay at Sylvain’s, after one too many close calls had resulted in Sylvain sporting a twisted ankle from hastily jumping back at Dimitri’s proffered hand.

It’s far too nice, when Dimitri touches him with the gloves on. Nothing much—gentle touches of his hand against Sylvain’s arm, tender brushes of his hair from his eyes when he’s hunched over the baker’s table, flour smattered on his nose. The warmth of the leather is _almost_ as good as his actual hand and the best Sylvain can ever hope to get.

Sylvain tries to give Annette and Dimitri a fair amount of time outside of work, but Dimitri’s as stubborn as Sylvain is. He’s pulling nothing but doubles except for the day they’re closed, but he’s handling it as fine as he can. His other option is calling Dedue back early, and there’s no way in hell Sylvain would ever _dream_ of doing that. Dimitri’s determined to suffer alongside him. He’s gotten good at helping make the pie fillings, but only when Sylvain’s given him detailed instructions, and never without Sylvain within eyesight in case something goes catastrophically wrong.

It’s better when he’s not by himself, though he’s hesitant to admit that aloud, in case it encourages Dimitri to stick it out with him even after Sylvain’s convinced him to call it a night. It’s definitely _better_ when he’s alternating with someone with these late night, early morning shifts, but until Dedue’s ready to return, the burden is on his shoulders. Annette’s updates have been brief, and he hasn’t pushed her into telling him more. If Dedue wanted to talk to Sylvain, he would. He’s just glad Felix isn’t working on a bunch of cases, his sole focus is just finding Dimitri’s murderer.

Dimitri insists it is not too important, much to Sylvain’s chagrin, but he sits quietly at the edge of the far counter with Felix. There are papers strewn about while Sylvain goes through his morning routine, his exhaustion only temporarily delayed due to the pot of hot coffee Felix has brewed.

“. . .and you’re _certain_ you haven’t made any enemies?” Felix is asking while Sylvain is pushing the rack of pies into the oven.

“Well, no, but I don’t think I’ve done anything to warrant being stabbed to death,” Dimitri answers, sounding only _slightly_ sassy, which makes Sylvain grin as he pushes the oven door shut.

“You pissed someone off enough to gouge your eye out,” Felix states.

“Oh, yes, you’re completely right. How could I have forgotten angering that deer that sprinted into my headlights.”

Sylvain snorts, making eye contact with Dimitri—who smiles—before glancing to Felix, who’s glaring.

The car accident that had stolen his right eye had been _messy_ , according to what he's divulged to Sylvain. Dimitri had still been conscious when paramedics arrived, adrenaline causing him not to notice the fracture to his skull that had maimed him. He had tried to swerve to avoid hitting the deer and had failed. The only one able to walk away from his wrecked car was him.

“You know I _do_ have to solve this, right?" Felix continues, irritated with their nonsense. "There’s someone out there running around with a knife willing to take someone of Dimitri’s size down, be it a paid hit or otherwise. Who knows what else they’ve done.”

Felix’s anger, while understandable, does nothing but fuel Sylvain’s exhausted amusement. He scowls at Sylvain’s smile.

“I can’t stand you.”

“I know,” Sylvain assures, leaning his palms against the baker’s table, exhaling a long breath.

He kind of wants a nap.

“So.” He claps his hands together, trying to force adrenaline into his veins to wake him up. “Still absolutely nothing?”

Dimitri sighs, tucking loose strands of his hair behind his ear. “I am sorry, Felix. I wish I remembered more. But I don’t know who killed me, nor why I was found behind the library on the university’s campus. As I've told you, the last thing I remember is making sure my friend Ashe got home after we had drinks. The next thing I knew, I was waking up with you two hovering over me.”

Felix huffs, exasperated, looking equally exhausted. Before any of them can broach a new subject for a minor distraction, the sound of keys in the back door reaches all of their ears. Sylvain pushes himself upright, brows furrowing, already ready to reprimand Annie and send her back home. She was due for a day off—Sylvain had _told_ her that he would cart her back upstairs if she did show up.

Except when the door swings open, it’s not Annette who steps through.

Dedue’s dressed to combat the early morning chill, his chin tucked down as he’s already divesting himself of his scarf, the handknit teal length of it being gently placed on one of the coat hooks.

Sylvain jolts in surprise at the sight of him, not expecting him back for at least another week. How people mourned varied, he knows, but he was expecting him to take more than just two weeks off. Sylvain barely notices Felix and Dimitri’s own surprise, the slightly slack-jawed look Dimitri’s giving Dedue, who seems largely prepared to ignore them to hang his coat up next to his scarf.

He doesn’t have time to focus on the others, though, the thrill of seeing Dedue amping him up more than the strongest shot of espresso could.

“Dedue! Welcome back!”

Dedue gives him a tiny, barely there smile, nodding. “It is—”

He stops short, his gaze landing on Dimitri and Felix. It takes Sylvain another moment. Seeing Felix shouldn’t be too out of the ordinary, even if Dedue _tolerates_ him at best, and while Dimitri _is_ a new person, Sylvain doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dedue’s face go through so many clear emotions at once. Shock, realization, dawning horror. Sylvain’s about to reassure him that it’s fine—Dimitri’s _allowed_ to be here, but he doesn’t get the chance. As soon as his lips part, Dedue’s voice is cracking out of his throat, broken and downright _devastated_.

“Dimitri. . .?”

The only sound between the four of them is the soft whirring of the oven. Sylvain feels like he’s been gut punched. It’s Felix who’s able to articulate their current situation best.

“ _Fuck_.”

**.**

“You. . .brought him back to life?”

The shop’s sign is still flipped to _Closed!_. Felix’s files have all been tidied up into the folder he’s keeping in his bag. They sit at one of the booths, Dimitri sitting cornered by Dedue, Sylvain sitting directly across from one of his most loyal employees and trusted friends.

There’s no chance of them lying to Dedue. Sylvain may have been a good liar to those who couldn’t see right through him, but Dedue knows him too well. Felix stood the only chance at being able to get a lie through to him, but even he agrees it’s easier to tell Dedue the truth with both Sylvain and Dimitri being unable to keep the ruse up.

Dedue, at least, will keep their secret.

“Yes,” Sylvain manages, voice tight. “Yes, I did. Under the condition that I cannot touch him again, unless he wishes to be dead forever this time.”

There had been a tense, overcharged moment after Dedue had first stepped in, where no one had quite known what to do. Sylvain hadn’t _known_ Dedue’s friend he was mourning was Dimitri—he hadn’t mentioned a name, and Sylvain hadn’t asked, afraid to pick the scab off a healing wound. Annette had just told Dedue Sylvain had gotten an old friend to hang out and help, not at all thinking their Dimitris could be the same.

Besides, according to the official report, Dimitri had died, then been cremated.

“Whose ashes was I given?” Dedue asks, after another long moment. He looks to Dimitri, brows heavy over his eyes. “I was given what I was told was your ashes.”

Dimitri looks to Sylvain. Sylvain looks to Felix. Felix looks away from them all, crossing his arms over his chest and exhaling a sharp breath as he glares out the window.

“I don’t know. Probably an animal’s.”

“Where’d they get the ashes, Fe?”

“Hey, I _paid extra_ for discretion. I could charge you for that, you know.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, settling back against the seat. “We’re just—we’re trying to figure out who killed him. And if there’s a _why_ behind it, or not.”

Dedue frowns, looking down at his hands. They’re loosely clasped on the tabletop, but they tighten as Sylvain looks at them, his thumb running atop his steepled fingers. “I wish I could help.”

“You don’t need to, Dedue,” Dimitri assures.

It’s almost breathtaking, seeing him like this. Immediately at ease and comfortable. Annette had gotten his walls cracked and broken, but she manages to do that with everyone she meets. Even Felix has a softer spot for her, buried deep within his prickly exterior.

Annette’s charm and attitude had done wonders for business. While Mercedes had dragged Dedue along when they had first started the business, touting him as a companion from her baking class, they had spent months trying to scrape by. Annette had moved in next door to Sylvain and three days later had been tapping on the glass door, asking if they were hiring. She had needed a part time job to help pay for tuition. Sylvain had been more than thrilled to drag her aboard their pie ship.

Still, seeing Dimitri’s easy smile, still soft and gentle, as he and Dedue talk is refreshing. Felix makes a grumpy noise at his side, elbowing Sylvain.

“I need to talk to you.”

Sylvain obediently nods, slipping out of the booth. Dedue and Dimitri’s conversation is quiet enough that once they slip through the pony door, it’s inaudible. Sylvain’s first check is the oven door timer—the pies still have a few minutes to go—before turning his attention to Felix, leaning his hands back against the countertop.

“What is it?”

Felix has a _look_ , one Sylvain’s seen only a handful of times. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, the tips of his toes tapping against the tile as he thinks over his words.

“I think. . .I think we may need to look beyond Dimitri, for his killer.”

Sylvain pauses, considering. “So you really do think it was a hit.” He’s considered it, before—there’s no way Dimitri could’ve easily been snuck up on and killed randomly, but something completely premeditated leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“His father was rich, his uncle inherited the money. Perhaps someone was just trying to ransom him and messed up. Perhaps they were trying to send his uncle a warning of what would happen to him.”

Sylvain doesn’t remember much of Dimitri’s uncle. He showed up at the funeral, looking as tall and imposing as any adult did that day, where Sylvain was convinced they could all see right through him. He hadn’t seemed _sad_ at the funeral, from what he remembers. Even at twelve, Sylvain couldn’t really blame him.

He hadn’t really been that sad at Miklan’s funeral, either. Just the deep-seated guilt that came with the knowledge of what he had done.

Sylvain can’t really imagine Dimitri’s uncle being involved, but then again, he’s tried hard not to dig too deep into anything involving Dimitri’s death. Felix always digs deep, always hunting and looking for different angles. He’s been that way since Sylvain first met him, a hellbent twenty-two year old that was determined to solve every case that came across his desk.

Sylvain knows better than to question why. There’s a thick, manilla folder atop Felix’s desk at his office with _Fraldarius, G._ on it, still unsolved.

“What do you suggest?” he offers, after a moment.

Felix exhales a long breath, his brow furrowed. “We need to look into his uncle, certainly, and beyond that, too.” He shakes his head after a moment, swinging his gaze to Sylvain’s. “You mentioned you grew up next door. Has anyone moved into his childhood home?”

Sylvain winces. The last time Sylvain had been to his parents’, he had been freshly graduated from high school, awaiting the inevitable day in the upcoming fall where his father forced him into college. Dimitri’s childhood home had sat empty. He remembers seeing a maid come around once a month over that summer, but no one else.

He tells Felix as such, watching as he thinks over the information. Before he can say anything else, the oven beeps, the timer going off. Sylvain moves to the door, peering in as the rack slowly rotates. He can feel Felix’s eyes on him but as he opens the oven door, Dedue appears at the pony door, Dimitri a half step behind him.

As Sylvain pulls the rack out, rolling it to the corner to cool, he glances over his shoulder. Felix is staring blatantly at Dimitri, but when Dimitri looks over, he looks down with his brow knitting together.

“I was hoping I might be able to take over,” Dedue says, “so I might fall back into rhythm.”

“Well, since I’m planning to stay closed until noon, I think that’s fine,” Sylvain says. “Felix has a question for you, Dimitri.”

Felix shoots him a glare that Sylvain doesn’t bat an eye at, bringing his gloves back to the oven door to set them aside. Dedue moves quietly through the bakery to wash his hands as Dimitri looks expectantly at Felix.

It takes Felix another moment before he exhales a huff. “How do you feel about us going to your uncle’s?”

Dedue makes a soft noise in his throat from the sink. “If you wish to question Rufus, I am afraid he’s still in Almyra.”

Sylvain frowns at Dedue as Dimitri lets out a soft chuckle that has Sylvain’s head whipping back towards him. Dimitri looks _sheepish_ , out of every expression he could make, his face darkening with a pale blush.

“Ah, yes—he had a vacation planned, and did not see any reason to return right away.”

“Even though you were _killed_?”

Dimitri shrugs. He _shrugs_.

“It could make it a decent time to look around, if you suspect he might have something to do with it,” Dedue continues, slipping an apron over his clothes.

“I can’t rule anything out,” Felix says. “Come on, Dimitri.”

“Oh, we’re going—now?”

“Yes. Grab your coat.”

Dimitri hesitates for a moment, glancing to Sylvain.“You can tell him no, if you don’t want to go,” Sylvain assures. “He doesn’t need you to go with him if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I—ah. Is it just to my uncle’s?”

Felix nods.

Another hesitation, then a soft, “May I stay in the car?”

Felix makes a small, disgruntled face, but shrugs. “Sure, whatever. Let’s go.”

Dimitri collects his coat, giving them both a wave as he follows Felix out the back door. Dedue is busy already, pulling prepped doughs from the freezer to get them ready for the pans. There’s silence between them before Dedue breaks it with a gentle clearing of his throat.

“Thank you.”

Sylvain startles. He’d been staring at the door, but looks over to him. “What?”

Dedue nods towards the door. “You could have lied to me and forced Dimitri to lie as well. You did not.”

“You’d see right through me if I lied,” Sylvain says. It had crossed his mind, just briefly. They could’ve told Dedue that it was an _attempted_ murder, that Dimitri needed to lay low. But the reports had already gone out and the press would have too many questions—more than Felix’s tiny investigation office could handle.

And he’s not wrong. Dedue would see right through him.

Dedue smiles at his declaration, a tiny twitch of his lips. “I suppose that’s true. You’re a bad liar.”

Sylvain makes a face but Dedue chuckles.

“It’s not a bad thing. You have a good heart.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” His face feels hot. “I’m just—I’m gonna go get us coffee?”

Dedue quirks a brow, eyes darting up from the floured surface he’s working on to the pot Felix had brewed them earlier. When he looks back to Sylvain, Sylvain feels his face grow even hotter. He stumbles backwards towards the door, not looking as he reaches for his coat, words spilling from his mouth.

“ _Decent_ coffee. From the place down the block.” He’s successfully grabbed his coat from the hook, shrugging it on. “Text me what you want when you get a chance to wipe your hands. My treat for a welcome back.”

“Sylvain—”

“M’kay, bye, love you!” he calls as he hurries out the door, the chill in the early, autumn morning cooling his warmed skin as he makes his way down the block.

**.**

Sylvain wakes for the first time in what feels like an era to the sun shining through his curtains. He rolls over on the bed as soon as the pale rays that filter through the curtain land on his eyes. After a moment, he rolls back, reaching out and patting around until he finds his phone. He squints against the bright light that greets him when he checks the device, but it’s just after seven, and he has no new messages.

Dedue had been insistent that he be allowed to take the first opening shift. After almost two weeks off, he had apparently been itching to get back into the swing of things, fall back into his routine. Sylvain, in all his paranoia, had told him that if he needed anything or changed his mind, to let him know. With the lack of calls or texts, he knows his anxiety was unreasonable—especially when it comes to Dedue.

It’s unbelievably _nice_ waking up after the sun’s risen. It’s still early on in the day, but he stretches in bed, feeling well rested for once. As soon as he sits up, he stretches his arms over his head, groaning as his shoulders pop. He kicks the blankets aside, yawning as he rises. It doesn’t take much for him to tidy the bed back up before he grabs some clothes. He sends Dedue a text while he makes his way from bedroom to bath, a _check in_ text that isn’t immediately answered.

His shower is quick—he’s been conditioned to be quick, over the past few days. He knows if there was ever a morning to indulge, it would be this one, but he can’t bring himself to, still nervous.

There’s a new message, a simple reply from Dedue telling him that everything is going smoothly. The immediate followup, while Sylvain is typing a response of his own, is an order from Dedue to stop worrying.

He doesn’t, naturally, but he at least shoves his phone in his pocket.

Sylvain passes by the guest bedroom on his way to the kitchen, scratching lazily at his stomach as he walks by. He can’t help the glance into the room, but he’s not anticipating the sight causing him to stop short.

Dimitri is sprawled out across the bed like a lion, hugging a pillow. His hair falls around his face in a mess of golden strands, soft snores floating over to where Sylvain stands in the doorway, mesmerized.

He doesn’t even notice the smile on his face until he starts to turn away and feels the tug in his cheeks.

Their breakfast for the past few days has been toast, or, on occasion, when Annie had some free time and made tarts that she left in a tiny container on the doormat for Sylvain to collect when they closed the bakery for the night. He hasn’t had the chance to make a proper breakfast in what feels like forever.

He hasn’t had the chance to go on a proper grocery run, but he has the ingredients on hand to make them something that feels like a real meal. He starts the coffee maker before he does anything else. The machine is older than the one downstairs, and it gurgles as it tries to chug to life.

Sylvain gets one mug of coffee down before he starts cooking. He’s halfway through frying the bacon when he hears Dimitri stumble out of the bedroom. He appears looking sleep-rumpled, hair a mess and rubbing at his eye. He’s in a pair of sweats and a thin sweater, his leather gloves clasped in his other hand.

“Well, good morning,” Sylvain greets, grinning.

He catches sight of Dimitri’s smile—sleepy and oozing with warmth and affection that dimples his sleep-rosy cheeks—before he turns back to the stove, trying to will the flustered heat in his face away. He hears Dimitri shuffling, the telltale sound of the gloves being slipped on.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks, the end of his question being drawn out through a yawn that has Sylvain snickering.

“No, I’ve got this,” he assures. “You should grab some coffee, though.”

Dimitri hums an agreement, his feet shuffling against the tile as he grabs a mug.

Sylvain can’t stop looking at him. The sunlight that shimmers in through the window makes Dimitri’s hair look like spun gold, shimmering in the light. Even with the stark contrast of the leather gloves on his hands, he still looks cosy, comfortable moving through Sylvain’s apartment as if he belongs.

The oil in the pan sends a light splatter outwards, catching against his forearm. Sylvain jolts, swearing, as he wrenches his eyes away from Dimitri, hurrying to make sure nothing catches on fire.

It takes far more effort than usual to keep his focus on not burning the building down.

Dimitri keeps out of his way, sitting just outside of the kitchen so they can chat without fear of accidentally brushing up against one another. Sylvain manages to get through the rest of making breakfast for them, bringing dished up plates to the table and settling at the far end. He’s just sitting down when his phone starts to ring, buzzing against the kitchen counter where Sylvain had left it.

He expects Dedue, honestly, as he leaps up, caving and demanding the help he rightfully deserves. Getting everything prepped for the shop’s open is never the easiest for one person to handle. Sylvain pauses as he sees who’s on the screen. Instead of Dedue’s friendly, welcoming face on the screen, the contact image that’s on the rattling device is a blurry, half-face selfie of himself and Felix, taken right before Felix had threatened to toss Sylvain’s phone into the river.

The fact that Felix is _calling_ him, instead of sending a text, makes a chill run down Sylvain’s spine.

He doesn’t even have a chance for a greeting. He answers the call, inhales, and is cut off by Felix’s voice.

“Sylvain. I have _nothing._ ”

Sylvain pauses, lips parted, his aborted greeting sitting on his tongue. Dimitri glances up from the table, his brow starting to knit together, but Sylvain recovers quick enough. He wets his lips with his tongue, shaking himself from his stupor with a jerky movement of his head.

“What?”

“I searched over everything that we could get from Rufus Blaiddyd’s house. There’s nothing that even _hints_ at him being responsible. He may have some less than savoury business practices, but nothing that screams ‘ _kill his nephew._ ’ That’s all I’ve got. There’s no other leads for me to even _try_ to follow.”

Sylvain turns away from Dimitri before he lets his expression crack and crumble.

Dimitri stood over six feet tall, packed with muscles he had worked hard to maintain for the sole reason of being able to protect _others_. Sylvain has his doubts that anyone could’ve managed to kill him without a thorough plan being laid out, but he’s only Felix’s sidekick in these endeavours. At this point, they’re normally at the _closing_ points, most of the information gathered from the deceased and investigated from there.

Not having _anything_ to go on, to have finessed all their leads without even finding a thread to something else, isn’t what they’re used to.

“What—?” He stops, thinks. “What do we do next, then?”

Felix makes a frustrated sound. “I don’t know,” he admits, sounding as pained as if he was getting teeth pulled. “I—” Felix makes another little noise, huffing a sharp breath. “I _could_ make a call.”

“To who?” Sylvain asks.

“A. . . _friend._ ”

“A friend,” Sylvain echoes. “Who else is your friend except Ingrid Galatea, Felix?”

“Fuck you,” snaps Felix. “He’s not even my friend.”

It takes Sylvain, as baffled as he is, to realize there is only one person on the planet that Felix would immediately walk back from calling a friend.

“Oh.” He huffs a startled, little laugh. “Really? You think he can help?”

“I _think_ he has more resources and more free time than I do,” states Felix. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“Wha—? Felix, the shop—”

“Dedue’s back, make him handle it.”

Sylvain’s mouth opens to argue against that, but before he can get a word in, there’s the distinct sound of being hung up on. He draws his phone back just to see _call ended_ on his screen and he sighs, frustrated.

Dedue’s first day back, and Sylvain’s going to be dumping the full morning and afternoon on him.

He pushes a hand through his hair, thumb moving over the keyboard to send a quick text to Dedue, full of emojis. As he makes his way back to the table, he catches sight of Dimitri, who’s watching him with concern in his eye.

“Everything alright?” Dimitri questions, voice laced with hesitation.

Sylvain sighs, settling back in his chair. The breakfast he had spent so long on just to make sure Dimitri had a decent meal chalked full of affection—and protein, honestly—doesn’t look appealing to him anymore. Dimitri’s almost halfway through his own, though, so Sylvain picks up a strip of bacon to nibble on.

“Felix will be picking me up in an hour for a field trip.”

Dimitri’s lips twitch up into a small, amused smile. “A field trip?”

Sylvain nods. “He thinks he might be able to enlist some extra help. I hate to ask this of you, but would you mind helping Dedue and Annie around the shop today?”

Dimitri sits up straight, blinking, looking at the ready immediately. There’s still a nervous thrill in his voice after he speaks, nodding while he does. “No, of course not! I’m grateful to be given the chance to help.”

Sylvain blinks at him. Dimitri’s expression goes from unadulterated joy to sheepish, a blush burning across the bridge of his nose, staining his cheeks. Sylvain can’t stop the rush of affection that swells within his chest at the sight and he _laughs_. A full body shuddering, deep belly laugh that he doesn’t try to stop, the fist covering his mouth nothing short of pretense.

He expects Dimitri’s anger as he laughs—justified that Sylvain has leapt off the deep end into this laughing fit he can’t stop—but when he fades into tittering giggles and looks across the table, Dimitri’s blush has faded to colour his face a dusty pink, and the smile on his face is exasperated, yes, but full of fondness.

The _pout_ Dimitri gives him has him falling off into another giggle, and gets him fit with a leveled look.

“I’m that amusing?” Dimitri questions.

“It was more a _joy_ laugh, instead of amusement,” Sylvain admits. He can’t stop smiling. “I’m just—y’know. Happy.”

“Happy,” echoes Dimitri, sounding mystified. “About. . .me helping with your work?”

“About _you,_ ” Sylvain says. He reaches across the table. The leather of Dimitri’s gloves is warm beneath his fingertips as he laces their fingers together and squeezes. “I am so unbelievably sorry about the circumstances—but I am so happy you’re back in my life.”

Dimitri blinks owlishly at him, the words jolting him, his hand squeezing Sylvain’s in surprise. The blush is back—peachy colour turning into high spots of scarlet at the arc of his cheekbones.

“Oh,” Dimitri says. “ _Oh._ ”

Sylvain huffs another laugh, less mirth within the little breath he exhales through his nose. He takes his hand back, sitting back against the chair. It’s not a no—but it isn’t a yes.

Sylvain doesn’t deserve a _yes_ , anyway. There’s no way this could work between them, even if he tried out a new wardrobe consisting of leather and layers. He picks up another piece of bacon in one hand, his phone in the other.

“I’ll let Dedue know you’re willing to help out today,” he says. “Hopefully this field trip pans out.”

**.**

There’s frost in the air as Felix makes a valiant attempt at parallel parking on the busy street. Sylvain has a scarf Dedue made wrapped about his neck as he slips out of the passenger seat, taking in the sharp, cold air of the city on the cusp of winter.

He’s never actually been to Claude von Riegan’s office. This side of the city is chalked full of businesses, the complete opposite vibe of the side with the university and _The Pie Hole_. There’s not a single rumpled student clutching tight to coffee cups wandering down the streets in a sleepy, stressed state. The only people walking along these sidewalks are business suits and briefcases.

Sylvain absolutely hates it here.

Felix leads him down a couple blocks from where they parked, his glare deterring people from staying in their path. The people part around them, giving Felix odd looks before going back to their business.

While Sylvain knows the bakery is in the best hands possible—even more capable than his own—but he wishes he was there instead of wandering down these streets, weaving between high-end, polished buildings to arrive at the building that Claude’s office is in.

Felix walks with the confidence of someone who’s been inside the building thousands of times, when they walk through the glass doors. He strides towards the elevators with Sylvain on his heels, looking only slightly grumpy and mostly windswept, as he pushes the button for floor thirteen, his cheeks and nose pink from the chill in the air.

“Do you want my scarf?” Sylvain offers. He’s been feeling a bit warm, as it is.

“Fuck off,” Felix mutters, tugging his jacket’s collar closer to his neck.

The only interactions Sylvain has had with Claude von Riegan have been through Felix. He’s never met him, only ever heard Felix talk about his kind-of, sort-of rival in derisive tones.

Felix had worked more closely with Claude in the years before he met Sylvain. There was no other way for a twenty-one year old to actually make it as an investigator without having help, which was easier for Claude, who's grandfather had left him his business.

Sylvain and Felix meeting had been purely by chance. An unfortunate pigeon situation. Sylvain had been tossing trash in the dumpsters behind the bakery when a dead pigeon had dropped on top of him, the precise same time Felix had been walking by the alleyway. There had been a moment between them of nothing but silence, and then Felix had launched into an interrogation. Sylvain had been saved by Mercedes, but Felix had come back the next day, and the day after, until Sylvain finally caved and told him.

He quit _Von Riegan Investigative Services_ three days later, and had enlisted Sylvain as a part-time helper ever since.

The inside of Claude’s office, compared to Felix’s, is a warm and welcoming place. It clashes ostensibly with what his business actually deals with, but as soon as they walk inside, they’re greeted with tall, cream walls, golden accents catching the sunlight that pours in through the windows. There’s comfy looking couches and chairs scattered about, as if the whole atmosphere of coziness can offer a distraction. The carpet beneath their feet is soft, muffling the sounds of their footsteps as Felix walks with determination through the room.

Sitting behind a large, oaken reception desk, a bored looking woman sits in a cozy chair, curling bubblegum pink hair around her fingertips. Her other hand lazily swirls a straw in a cup of iced coffee, her eyes staring blankly at a computer monitor. She doesn’t even look up when Felix and Sylvain approach the desk, her hand dropping from her hair to click at something on her screen.

“Mr von Riegan isn’t taking visitors today unless you have an appointment,” she drones, tone already bored. “Any appointments were notified to call ahead—”

Felix’s irritation comes through as an almost growl.

“I didn’t call ahead.”

Sylvain understands how he feels. They’ve been running around in circles for weeks. Felix is at his wits end trying to scrape up any chance of getting a lead in who murdered Dimitri and Sylvain knows that them being here, in Claude’s office, is Felix admitting that he can’t handle everything by himself.

The woman at the desk actually looks to them when Felix huffs, brow knitting together. “Oh. Claude didn’t mention you were coming.”

“Why would I tell Claude when I’m coming here?”

“Because that’s how businesses _work_ , Felix,” she drawls, tapping manicured nails atop the desk.

Sylvain, incapable of keeping quiet, goes, “We don’t take appointments at my business.”

Her eyes dart to him, before they slowly look him over. He’d be more insulted with the way her lips twist in a small grimace if he thought she wasn’t trying to put an air about her.

“Okay,” she says, easily dismissing hum, before she turns back to Felix. “Claude’s not busy, though, so I guess you can head back there.”

“Great job as always, Hilda,” Felix states, rolling his eyes.

“What—you _want_ me to tell you ‘no, you can’t go back there?’” She snorts. “Claude isn’t busy and it’s _you_. Guest or not, of course you can go back there.”

Sylvain hums at the wording, watching how bright Felix’s face gets as he mutters under his breath, turning on his heel to lead Sylvain down the hallway. “Don’t you dare say a word, Sylvain.”

“Hey, I didn’t want to tag along in the first place.”

Felix rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. The hall they head down is covered in painted landscapes. It’s a quick walk to a heavy wooden door, and Felix doesn’t even pause to knock before he throws the door open.

Sylvain’s not sure _what_ he expected for a first meeting with Claude von Riegan. Based on the stories he’s heard, he expected someone suave, in a crisp business suit, the office impeccably clean.

The sight they’re met with is nowhere close.

Claude von Riegan has his legs kicked over the chair’s arm, leaning back against the other, sleeping with a folder across his face. The desk is covered in a mess of paper and coffee cups, a pen cup knocked over leaving its contents spilled across the table top. There’s a suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair, his button up rumpled with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Sylvain can see the edges of a few papers underneath the edge of the folder on top of his face.

Felix, unperturbed with the sight, walks forward and kicks the desk edge, the resounding thud startling Claude awake.

The folder atop his face falls as he jolts, feet hitting the ground with two sharp bangs as he sits up sharply. His eyes land on Felix first, expression flittering too quickly for Sylvain to tell what he feels all until that gaze lands on him and a mask is knit into place.

“Felix. What a surprise.”

“I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here,” Felix states, voice still terse.

Claude smiles—a smug, little smirk. “I have my doubts about that,” he drawls. “Who’s your friend? Is this the infamous pie maker?”

“This is Sylvain. He needs your assistance.”

Claude’s eyes dart from Felix to Sylvain, narrowing just slightly as he looks him over. When he looks back to Felix, his expression softens only slightly as he leans forward, steepling his fingers to rest his chin atop his knuckles.

“He does, huh?”

“What do you know of Dimitri Blaiddyd?” Felix questions.

“Blaiddyd, Blaiddyd.” Claude shifts, tapping his chin. “Who’s that?”

“You _know_ who he is,” states Felix.

Claude hums, tilting his head this way and that. Sylvain can’t tell whether he’s feigning ignorance, or really has to think it over. Either way, his eyes are sharp, his gaze calculating as it lands on Sylvain, and he’s immediately uncomfortable.

He wonders what his chances are of slipping back to the lobby are. He doubts Hilda would mind if he sat on one of those cozy couches.

Felix makes an irritated noise, obviously over Claude and his games. “Blaiddyd was the one that was stabbed and found near the university’s main library.”

“ _Ooh_ , right, right, that name _does_ ring a bell or two, really shakes a tambourine.”

“I’ll kill you,” Felix declares, without hesitation.

Claude’s smirk widens. “Aw, darling, not in public.” He moves the hand that had been tapping his chin to cup his cheek, looking away. “You’ll make me blush.”

_Felix_ is the one who’s starting to blush, whether from embarrassment or anger, Sylvain can’t tell. His cheeks are a dangerous shade of red, his eyebrows furrowing in fury.

“Stop playing your _games_ , Claude. This is important.”

Claude’s face is painstakingly neutral as he looks from Felix back to Sylvain before actual concern replaces his expression. Genuine worry knits his brows, and he looks to Felix as he speaks.

“You’re right—a man is dead,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, Felix. How can I help?”

“I’ve gone through everything I had, and have no leads. His uncle is still in Almyra on vacation.”

Claude blinks, startling at that. “Even after being notified of his nephew’s murder?”

Felix nods. Claude’s eyes dart away, his bafflement visible on his face as he grabs a piece of paper, flips it over, and starts to scribble down notes.

“Have you been able to look into his other family?”

“He has no other family,” Sylvain says, piping up. “His mother died when he was a baby, and his father when he was ten.”

Claude just nods, writing quickly. “Were you able to get access to his uncle’s residence?”

“Both the uncle’s, and Blaiddyd’s apartment. Nothing there that could point to a reason for him to be murdered.”

“And you have reason to believe this wasn’t just the work of someone random? You believe it was a target?”

Claude looks up when he asks, his eyes heavy on Felix, who just nods.

“The way his body was found—public—makes me believe that someone might have been trying to prove a point to his uncle.”

Claude nods, pen tapping against the desk. He looks to Sylvain. “And you knew the victim?”

It takes him a moment. His brain shoves the image of Dimitri laying on the slab back at the morgue when Claude first utters _victim_ to the front of his mind. It clashes with the newest, warmest thought of Dimitri from that morning, sitting in the kitchen, sleep warm and radiant, his smile full of unwarranted affection.

Felix’s eyes are boring into the side of his head. Sylvain manages a shaky exhale before he can muster up the strength to answer Claude’s question.

“We grew up together,” he murmurs, voice soft.

Claude writes that down, his brows furrowed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says.

Sylvain believes him.

“Thank you.”

**.**

“I’ve had a thought.”

Sylvain glances over to Dimitri. He’s on the other side of the prep table, staring down at the rolls of parchment paper and cling wrap Sylvain has on the counter. Sylvain frowns at his back, but goes back to kneading the dough on the table. “Yeah?”

Dimitri hums. “Maybe not, actually,” he says, after a moment’s pause.

Sylvain snorts, trying to bite down on his grin. His attention stays on the dough as he determines it’s good, and he pats it into shape before laying it on the square of cling wrap he’s laid out. There’s a few more squares, for the next few doughs he has to make, but he carries this one to the fridge. With Dedue still readjusting, Sylvain’s still running on doing most of the prepwork by himself. Annette’s offered constantly, but Sylvain is still steadfast in his refusal of letting her overwork herself with twelve hour days.

He’s still far too caught up in his own thoughts, the process of dough making relying on muscle memory and ingrained knowledge from doing this so often,and he’s going through the next few steps in his mind as he opens the fridge to set the dough in to chill. He doesn’t register the sound of shuffling feet until the door shuts and he turns.

The plastic wrap stretched in front of his face is absolutely not something he’s expecting—nor is he expecting Dimitri’s lips to press against his through the clinging plastic.

And—oh. _Oh._ Even through the plastic it’s. . .nice.

Dangerously nice.

His fingers itch to reach out when Dimitri draws back, his face distorted through the cling wrap but still bright red as he lowers it, face starting to twist with worry.

“Was—? Ah. I should’ve asked, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry, I just—.”

“No, don’t—” _Fuck_. His voice comes out rough and he takes a step back to clear his throat. “Don’t apologize. That was—. Good. Really good, actually.”

It’s been far too long since Sylvain’s let anyone close enough to kiss him. Based on the way Dimitri looks oddly enthusiastic about the praise, he’s in the same boat.

Sylvain exhales a shaky breath, his fingers clenching into the fabric of his apron. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, watching Dimitri’s eye track the movement.

“Do that again?” He offers it as a question, just in case, but he doesn’t need to worry.

Dimitri smiles, confidence boosted, and lifts the cling wrap.

It shouldn’t be a good kiss, shouldn’t make Sylvain’s entire body feel like his nerves have started to catch fire. He can’t _feel_ Dimitri, truly, but his lips still move against Sylvain’s through the plastic. It’s a chaste kiss, given the circumstances, and Sylvain wants nothing more than to figure out a way for them to not need the plastic, for him to be able to kiss Dimitri breathless and run his fingers along flushed skin.

“What are you two _doing?_ ”

The sound of the pony door swinging makes them leap apart. Felix stands in the doorway, face contorted as Dimitri hastily backpedals, gripping the plastic in two tight fists. Sylvain is certain he is blushing almost as dark as Dimitri is as Felix looks between them.

“Felix! Good morning!”

His eyes narrow, still flicking between them before he turns to face Sylvain. “Right, well—. I think I may have found something after going over the papers we found at Rufus’.”

“Really?”

Felix nods. Sylvain moves to tidy up part of the counter so Felix can lay out the papers he pulls from his bag. There’s copies of the papers they had rifled from Dimitri’s uncle’s office. Most are correspondence, full fledged letters between businesses trying to piece together a way to keep things afloat.

What Felix thinks is the most important, most telling, of it all is a small symbol, a little rune that’s been on every document from business paperwork to personal letters.

Four little lines, making an abstract shape of a diamond. Sylvain’s seen it before—seen the other one that shows up next to one of the personal correspondences. The tiny, circular one is one he knows well.

He points to the circular one. “What is this?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Felix states. “But they’re practically everywhere.”

“They look like they could be ritualistic,” Dimitri murmurs, on Felix’s other side.

Felix nods. “That’s what I was thinking.”

Sylvain takes a step back, letting Felix and Dimitri crowd over the documents. Dimitri vaguely recognizes the symbols, but can’t place where he saw them except perhaps in some of these papers. Sylvain knows where he’s seen both. While the diamond is less familiar, the sharp edges on the circular one are ingrained in his memory from all of his father’s paperworks.

He had planned for Sylvain to take over the business. Sylvain had had no desires for that, but back then, he had been desperate to please, desperate to stay in his good graces so he wasn’t forced to stay at his boarding school over breaks.

“I’ve asked Claude to look into it,” Felix states, and Sylvain lifts an eyebrow, grinning when Felix catches sight of it and scowls. His face is turning red, and he looks away. “He said he would let me know if anything popped up. We think it might have to do with occult practices.”

“Who’s Claude?” Dimitri asks.

“No one,” Felix states, while Sylvain goes, “A _rival_ of Felix’s that doesn’t seem to be in the rival books anymore.”

“Shut up, Sylvain. You already knew we got his help.”

“Yeah, but this means you’ve been _chatting_.”

“I literally _just_ walked in on you and Dimitri trying to makeout through plastic wrap—you are not allowed to say _anything_ to me.”

**.**

“Um, Sylvain?”

Sylvain’s rolling a crust along a pie pan when the door leading out to the front of the bakery swings. He glances over to Annette, who's dressed in her usual outfit for waitressing, a bright sundress with an apron tied around her waist. Dedue had braided her hair that morning, before he and Dimitri had gone out for the day.

It’s not unusual for Annie to pop back to check on Sylvain or collect an order, but the nervous set of her shoulders, the way she clutches her notebook to her chest, makes him pause, setting the rolling pin in his hands aside.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s—um—someone here for you?”

She gestures with a tilt of her chin and Sylvain looks out the archway. At a booth near the door, looking far too interested in the menu, is Claude von Riegan.

“Hm.”

“ _Hm_?” Annette questions. “That’s it? Isn’t that—?” She makes a small face before walking into the room, frown deepening as she glances out the archway to look at Claude before back. She lowers her voice, as if the music that plays through the diner’s speakers isn’t loud enough to drown them out anyway. “That’s Claude von Riegan, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sylvain says, going back to his work. He presses the dough down into the pan, trying to ignore Annette’s stare into the side of his head, and failing. “He’s harmless, Annie.”

“Harmless,” she echoes, a sardonic tone filling her voice. “Felix’s rival private investigator showing up is _harmless_?”

Sylvain snorts, grabbing a pair of scissors to trim the excess crust. “It’s cute that you think they’re still rivals.”

“What?”

“Nothing—it’s fine. Go tell him I’ll be out for a chitchat in a bit. I have pies to make.”

“ _Sylvain_.”

“Annette.”

He glances up, seeing a familiar puffy-cheeked pout, her anger blazing in her eyes. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting, and she relents with a huff, turning on her heel.

“We’re not done talking about this.”

“Is there something to talk about?” he asks, but Annette just glares before pushing through the pony door.

Sylvain glances out the archway again, spotting von Riegan’s quick glance away from him to Annette as she approaches his table. Sylvain flicks his eyes in a roll, finishing up as quickly as he can. He wipes down his work surface, just to make Claude wait, trying to figure out why Claude is here and wanting to speak with _him_.

He figures he should let Felix know about this surprise visit, but, as he shucks off his apron, he figures he should wait a bit just to figure out his motives first.

He’s not sure what to expect of this. Based on their first meeting, Sylvain figures Claude’s like Felix in the way he throws himself into his work, pushing himself until he collapses to try to dig deeper and figure things out.

Sylvain’s not sure what kind of guy Claude von Riegan is like outside of a workplace setting. He doubts, as he gets a good look at him, that he’s considering this anything _but_ a work visit, since he’s dressed in a pressed suit, a heavy winter coat tossed over the booth’s back. Annette’s brought him a slice of pie that’s almost gone, and as soon as Claude spots him approaching, he pushes the plate aside, a small, false smile curling his lips up.

“Sylvain. I can see why a pie-based restaurant can actually stay afloat with pies like these.”

He hums, smiling, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stops. “I think we both know you’re not just here for the pies, Mr von Riegan.”

Claude makes a face. “Please, never call me that again. You make me sound like my grandfather. Claude is fine. And you’re right. I’ve found something I’m not sure Felix will be thrilled about me finding.”

Sylvain’s eyes narrow. He lifts his gaze, glancing around. While the shop isn’t _busy,_ there’s still a handful of customers scattered about.

“This sounds like a conversation we should be having in my office,” Sylvain says.

Claude’s eyebrows raise, but he dips his chin in a nod. He slides out of the booth, grabbing his coat. He slings it over his arm, letting Sylvain lead him through the pony wall. The small, little chuff of laughter he gets from Claude is what he expected when he goes to the far counter, away from the other prep areas, and tugs a stool out for him to sit on.

“So.” Sylvain leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms as Claude sits. “What’s the news?”

Claude hums, that false little smile still on his face. “Well, that depends.”

Sylvain tilts his head. “Depends on what?”

“How long you and Felix were going to tell me that Blaiddyd’s murder was a cover up.”

The shock that runs through his system hits him like a gut punch. Sylvain doesn’t even have the chance to try to mask his expression—and based on the mirthless, levelled stare he gets from Claude, there’s no way he could be believable.

“I don’t know what you two think you gained from keeping that tidbit from me,” Claude continues, waving a hand nonchalantly despite the piercing gaze digging directly into Sylvain. “I have no investment in Blaiddyd. The rest of the world can believe he’s dead, but you can’t honestly have expected my help in the matter without letting me know about it.”

Sylvain considers his options, carefully going through the choices he can make as his heart thuds in his ribcage, threatening to break loose. He’s dug his nails so deeply into his shirtsleeves he’s honestly surprised they haven’t torn through the fabric yet. He exhales, adjusting his weight.

Claude just stares at him, a lone eyebrow raised.

“I’m just a pie maker,” says Sylvain, slowly, “but even I know that the less people that know Dimitri is _alive_ , the better.”

Claude’s eyes narrow. “Fair enough,” he states. “But again—you’ve asked for my help.”

“ _Felix_ asked for your help,” Sylvain counters.

“Sure, fine, if that’s how you want it to be stated.” Claude rolls his eyes in a quick flick. “I need to speak with Blaiddyd.”

“That’s not going to happen,” says Sylvain, straightening. “Felix has already asked him everything he needs to ask.”

“Even still—”

Claude stops short at the sound of the door swinging. Sylvain looks over his shoulder, carefully schooling his expression as Annette walks in, her eyes boring straight into them without an ounce of shame.

“Annie,” Sylvain greets, smiling.

Her eyes narrow into a glare at it, turning with a huff as she goes to collect an order. Claude chuffs, rising to his feet.

“I’ll talk to Felix, then,” he says. He proffers a hand, and it takes Sylvain a long moment to unclench his fist to take it in a brief shake. “This isn’t going to affect how I help, by the way. I’m petty, but not that petty.”

“Sure,” Sylvain agrees. “I’ll let him know you like the pies.”

“I’m sure he’s dying to hear about that.” Claude winks as he makes his way out. Annette moves to shamelessly peer at him through the archway while Sylvain stands stockstill, trying his hardest to steady his breathing.

“Oh, thank the goddess,” Annette breathes in a rush.

That startles Sylvain out of his pause, glancing over to her. “What?”

“He actually paid.” She looks to Sylvain. “I was thinking he was just going to slip out without paying.”

Sylvain takes a moment, baffled, before he laughs slightly, pushing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he didn’t peg me as the dine and dash at a pie shop type.”

“Uh huh. What’d he ask about?”

“Some Felix related things,” Sylvain says, not an entire lie. “Don’t you have someone waiting on that pie?”

Annette glares. “You are on _thin ice_ , Sylvain.”

“I have done _nothing_ wrong,” he protests.

“That’s a lie, and everyone knows it.”

His mouth opens to argue against that, but he can’t find the words before Annette sweeps out of the room, a tray balanced atop her palm. He makes a small face, turning to the hooks on the wall. He pulls his phone out of his jacket’s pocket, sending a quick text to Felix before slipping the device into his pocket and heading to wash his hands.

Sylvain’s a pie maker. He has pies to make.

After Claude’s midday visit, the rest of his shift goes relatively smoothly. He gets an answer from Felix, who is already on top of calling Claude to _discuss circumstances_. By the time Dimitri and Dedue arrive, both looking red-nosed and wind-chilled, he’s all but forgotten about Annette’s determination to suss out what’s happening.

Dimitri is thrilled at the opportunity to close the shop up with Dedue, who treats it like any other day of the work week. The only exception is the small smile he shoots at Dimitri every time he thinks neither are looking. The only other person who gets that smile is _Annette_ which tells Sylvain just how happy he is that Dimitri hadn’t been left on that slab in the morgue.

“Are you two _sure,_ ” Sylvain asks, for what is possibly the fourteenth time in ten minutes, “that you’re alright by yourselves?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dedue and Dimitri answer.

Annette grabs his arm, already in her puffy, marshmallow jacket. “C’mon, let’s go!”

“Are we going together?” Sylvain asks.

“We’re next door neighbours, Sylvain,” she says, tugging more firmly. Sylvain stumbles a step, always unexpecting the strength Annie has in her arms. “Let’s go! You said you wanted to clean your floors.”

Sylvain’s arm gets released when he relents, so he can shrug his jacket on, but as soon as it’s over his shoulders, Annette’s hands have clamped back on his wrist. He calls back over his shoulder as Annette manhandles him out the door that if they should need anything, or change their minds, he’s _right upstairs! Just text!_

“You are such a mom,” Annette declares, smoothing a strand of bright orange hair away from her face. Her braid’s only slightly frazzled from the smooth plait that Dedue had put it in, the teal ribbon at its end standing out against the white of her jacket. “You act as if Dedue hasn’t closed before.”

“I act as any good business owner who already makes his workers work six days a week _should_ act.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not listening. “Are you just going to clean your floors now that you’re done with work?”

“No,” Sylvain says, darting a step ahead of her jog to grab the door into their apartment building for her. “I have other things I need to clean.”

“You should really get a hobby,” she declares.

“I bake pies! Is baking not a hobby?”

“Not if it’s how you make your income,” she says, skipping up the stairwell. “You could drag Felix out to the movies once in a while, y’know.”

“Wh—? _Felix_? You want me to take Felix out on dates?”

“Not _dates._ ” She shoots a look over her shoulder as Sylvain follows her up the stairs. “If you’re going to take anyone on dates, it should be Dimitri.”

Sylvain startles, starting to splutter, but Annette barrells on.

“Felix works too hard, though, he deserves a break, too!”

“Felix is working on a case right now—”

She pins him with another look. “Exactly. Take him to the movies! Or to the opera!”

“The—. Hold _on_ , Annie, the opera?”

“He likes the opera!”

Sylvain stops short on the stairs, face contorting. Annette hops along, reaching the landing their apartments are on before she notices Sylvain isn’t right behind her. She peers over the railing, eyebrow raised.

“The opera?” he repeats.

Annette nods. “That’s where we went on his birthday last year. Ingrid came with, it was great!”

“ _Ingrid_ went to the opera?” Sylvain hurries up the rest of the stairs. “Ingrid _Galatea?_ ”

“ _Yes_.” Annette sounds unreasonably exasperated as she tugs her keys from her pocket. “Though I think she went because of the singer.”

“Dorothea Arnault,” Sylvain states.

Annie nods. “Have fun cleaning!” she coos, as she unlocks her door.

“I _like_ cleaning,” Sylvain tells her. “ _You_ like cleaning!”

“Yes, but it’s not my hobby—okay, _bye_!”

Sylvain waits until her door is shut before rolling his eyes, huffing an amused breath as he unlocks his own door, slipping inside.

He’s not sure what to do with the emotion that hits him when he stops in the doorway and spots Dimitri’s shoes next to his on his little shoe cupboard. It’s nothing _new_ , he knows. Not the first time he’s walked inside to spot them before.

It’s just the first time he’s walked inside without having to be aware of how far Dimitri is from him—the first time he’s able to stop and think.

They haven’t really talked about their disastrous, non-disaster kisses, exchanged in stolen moments with a sheet of plastic between them. Sylvain’s never been one to express real emotions in conversations. With Dimitri, he knows just how much he needs to.

He figures it’ll be best for Dimitri to nip this in the bud. There’s no way they’d be able to have what they both want from a relationship with the risk of Sylvain killing him with a spur of the moment caress.

Maybe Sylvain should start wearing gloves, too.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts, leaving his shoes in the cupboard as he heads deeper into his apartment to change before he gets started on his chores.

Despite how much energy he’s poured into the bakery over the past few weeks without Dedue there, there’s not much in his apartment to clean. He’s just been unable to put in as much effort into deep cleaning as usual, especially with the concern of accidentally bumping into Dimitri.

He starts by collecting bedding, the bundle of sheets in his arms doubled from gathering the sheets from Dimitri’s bed. After he remakes the beds with fresh sheets, as the washing machine rumbles to life, he tidies up the guestroom, keeping himself on top of staying _out_ of the dresser and closet and just settling for vacuuming the carpet. The rest of the apartment is easy enough for him to feel at ease cleaning. He scrubs the grout in the kitchen, polishes the coffee table in the living room with a microfiber towel, breaks out the steam mop for the hardwood floors that go throughout the apartment.

He’s letting the kitchen floors finish drying, sitting on the rug in the living room in front of his emptied out bookshelf, trying to decide if he wants to reorganize by colour this time, or stick to alphabetical by author’s name when there’s a sharp, quick knock on his front door.

Sylvain glances down to the stacks of books around him before back to the door. He climbs to his feet, heading towards it with a sigh.

He’s not expecting Annette to be standing on the doormat, holding a plate of lopsided choux pastries in her hands and a fiercely determined scowl on her face.

Sylvain lifts an eyebrow as he stares down at her. “I thought baking wasn’t a hobby?”

“Shut up and let me inside, you villain,” she huffs.

“Oh, I’m a villain now, am I?” he asks, stepping aside to let her in. “Don’t go in the kitchen, the floors aren’t dry yet.”

Annette leaves the plate of pastries on the table, eyeing the book stacks suspiciously as she moves into the living room. Sylvain waits a moment, watching her, trying to anticipate what exactly she’s doing here, before he heads back to his bookshelf.

“What do you think—alphabetical, or by colour?”

“Why not both?” Annette offers.

Sylvain hums, going to sit back down to get started on sorting, but Annette catches his arm. Her gaze is fierce, burning determination peering up at him when he looks to her.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Sylvain startles, taken off guard by her straight to the point attack. “What?”

“The huge secret you’re keeping from me—the reason Felix is hanging around even more than normal and our new hire has the same name as Dedue’s newly deceased best friend.” He obviously can’t mask his face quick enough at that. When she spots the shock in his gaze, her eyes light up with fire and she growls, “ _What—is—going—on?_ ” She punctuates her question with a jabbed finger to his chest.

“Wh—?” Sylvain shifts, stepping away from her sharp nail. “Nothing is going on, Annette.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Sylvain!”

“I’m not—”

“You're keeping something from me," Annie accuses, eyes sharp. "Whatever it is involves your not-boyfriend and Dedue. Tell me!"

"Annie. Your imagination’s running wild," Sylvain tells her, stepping away, trying to put a barricade between them as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He sidesteps the stacks of books, leaving her on the other side of the coffee table. "I don't know—"

Annette stomps her foot before she climbs onto the coffee table. Sylvain only has a moment to process that her _feet_ are on his coffee table, the coffee table he _just cleaned_ , where _food_ goes before her fingers in his face, eyes bright and furious.

"You don't need to keep me out of whatever this is, Sylvain!" she insists. "I can help! There's a _lot_ of things I know that could be of use, and besides—" She straightens up, lifting her chin, crossing her arms—

_her feet are still on his coffee table_

—and goes,

"—don't you think you'll need a woman's gentle touch?"

"No."

"A _scholar's_ touch?" she tries, voice hitching.

"Also no." Sylvain hesitates for a moment before pulling his hands from his pockets. He grabs Annie around the waist, ignoring her indignant yelp, and sets her on the ground. " _but_ —," he continues, once she's steadied, "—you may know what this is."

He doesn’t have any of the documents Felix has on hand, but he does have pictures of the symbols in their text message thread. Annette takes the device when he proffers it, brow knitting as she looks down at the pictures. After a moment, when Sylvain is just starting to think it was foolish to ask, even more ridiculous to expect a proper answer, when Annette swings her eyes back up to his.

An eyebrow raises, the look of disbelief in her eyes making Sylvain feel like an idiot without her even opening her mouth.

“Wait, really?” he questions.

“Sylvain, I took _multiple_ classes under Professor Arnim. I didn’t _want_ to pursue something in occultism and mythology, but she _is_ a very good teacher.”

Sylvain’s mouth opens, closes. He blinks. “ _What?”_

“That little diamond symbol is a crest, Sylvain,” Annette says, sounding baffled that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “It’s the main one Professor Arnim used as examples in her class.”

“Who—what—wait, hold on. Go back. Who the hell is Professor Arnim?”

Annette rolls her eyes, shoving his phone back into his hands. “Cornelia Arnim?”

He stares blankly, blinking at her.

“Oh my—.” She heaves a dramatic sigh, plopping onto the couch. “Mr ' _I don't need a scholar_ ,'" she huffs. "She’s a really good professor at the university, Sylvain!”

Sylvain makes a small face, glancing down to his phone. He sends a text to Dimitri, not expecting an immediate response. Annette’s still peering at him.

“What does Cornelia have to do with anything?”

“Felix is stuck on an investigation,” Sylvain tells her, carefully choosing his words. “We had—we didn’t know where those symbols came from.”

“Well, it’s not like they’re publicly known, I guess,” Annette admits, her arms crossed over her chest. 

"But she used them as examples?"

"Some," she says, "but not all and not often enough for them to really stick. I just saw them on her papers a lot when I went to her office.”

“Papers,” Sylvain echoes. “Like, research papers or personal things?”

Annette makes a face, colour tinting high on her cheekbones as she looks away. “I didn’t _read_ anything—”

“No, no, Annie, I’m not trying to call you out for snooping—”

“I wasn’t snooping!”

“—but if it was personal, I need to know. _Felix_ needs to know.”

“I don’t know, I didn’t read them,” she repeats, shifting on the couch to cross her legs and pluck at a loose thread at the hem of her dress. “But, I—. Well, I did see the name Rufus a lot on them.”

“Fuck.”

Annie looks back at him, brow furrowing. “Is that bad?”

“No—yes—maybe? I have to call Felix.”

He goes to do just that, unlocking his phone, but before he can even pull up Felix’s contact, his phone buzzes in his grasp, a new text dropping down from the notification bar.

Dimitri’s answered him, with a simple, _Cornelia works with my uncle quite a bit! She’s nice, if a bit eccentric_.

He’s signed his text with a smiley face. Sylvain closes his eyes, reaching up to dig his knuckle against the bridge of his nose.

He hears Annette shift, rising to her feet. “Sylvain?”

“ _Fuck._ ”

**.**

The bakery smells like cinnamon and cooked apples, the pies Sylvain had pulled out moments before sitting on their rack in the corner, cooling quickly. Dimitri sits at the end of the counter, staring at the way the steam coalesces into a fog on the frosted windows. There’s a furrow to his brow, a look of consternation on his face.

Sylvain hadn’t meant to keep anything hidden from him, but he had gone straight to Felix first after learning about who Cornelia Arnim was. It had been a few days, and Felix had come back with a file thicker than any other case file he’s seen. Claude’s compiled research notes were mixed in with Felix’s own.

He had smacked it onto the counter, demanded they read it over before he was back from getting coffee from the shop down the road, and had left. Sylvain’s hands had been covered in pieces of dough and flour.

Dimitri had gotten to the file first.

Sylvain stands with a hip leaning against the counter, his arms crossed. He’s tried multiple times to break the silence, but the words had all shriveled on his tongue, dying with a taste of ash as the pain grew on Dimitri’s face with each new sheath of paper he read.

There’s plenty of names besides Cornelia’s. Names Sylvain doesn’t recognise— _Solon, Kronya, an alias of Thomas_ —float alongside a couple names that send shivers down his spine. Rufus’ is just one of them. His father’s is next. The one that had Felix looking like he was ready to commit a murder of his own—Rodrigue Fraldarius.

The dark underbelly of whatever lives beneath the city had all been laid out clear in the papers. Cornelia’s position as a professor at the university was just an easy coverup for the misdeeds she’s committed alongside her companions and compatriots. Things Sylvain shudders to think about, even after reading through the tortures that had been written down.

He shifts his weight, mouth opening before he closes it again. Pulling the pies from the oven had only been a brief respite for the air that had fallen over the backroom. Dedue, acting as waiter today, had slipped in and out, each time glancing between them silently before collecting what he needed.

The silence is killing Sylvain. He’s normally so much better with his words, but the anxiety has clawed its way up his throat, threatening to choke him if he so much as breathes an audible exhale. He’s barely resisting tapping his foot, his toes wiggling in his shoes to stem some of the need to _do something,_ anything, to dispel the atmosphere that’s settled over them.

Dimitri exhales, a shaky, long breath. With it, his expression crumples, and he swings his gaze towards Sylvain, the brilliant blue of his eye filled with such sadness that Sylvain wants nothing more than to pull him into a hug and reassure him that they’ll handle it.

“I can’t believe my family would be involved in something like this,“ he whispers, broken. “I can’t fathom how they could—how _anyone_ could—” His voice cracks, and he bites harshly on his lips, looking away.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain manages, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, Dimitri.”

“Why in the world are _you_ apologizing? This isn’t—this isn’t _your_ fault.”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything to agree or disagree. His eyes dart back to the one piece of paper that he had kept out when Dimitri had shoved the entire thing away in disgust and horror.

There’s not a lot of details on it, for which Sylvain is both thankful and ungrateful for. The few instances where there had been documented cases of Cornelia and her _friends_ had experimented on children had been spared the true nature behind their intent.

Sylvain’s certain he’s never met Cornelia, but his memories of his early childhood are fuzzy.

And he’s more certain he wasn’t _born_ with the ability to bring the dead back to life.

Before he or Dimitri could speak, the door swings open. Dedue stands with a hand on the pony door, eyes slightly narrowed over his shoulder. He turns, an unimpressed look on his face.

“Felix is back.”

“He’s allowed back here, Dedue,” Sylvain says, lips twitching into a tiny smile despite the situation.

Dedue hums, slipping out of the doorway. Right behind him bursts Felix, his glare lethal.

“I’ve called my father,” he says, without preamble, gripping the coffee cup in his hand with silvered knuckles. “We’re going to talk to him.”

Sylvain blinks. “Who’s ‘ _we?_ ’” he questions.

Felix looks at him like that’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard. “My father somehow knew _both_ of your families and yet I never met either of you when I was growing up. You’re saying you _don’t_ want answers? A reason why he might have been involved in _that?_ ”

He all but spits the last word, snarling as he gestures towards the file folder sitting on the counter.

“Your father’s name was only mentioned a few times,” says Sylvain, “and never within any context to make me believe he had _any_ idea what was happening.”

Felix slams his coffee cup down, some of it splashing from the lid to hit the countertop, some droplets catching his hand. If Felix notices the heat on his skin, he doesn’t let it show, his anger brimming off of him in waves as his face contorts with each step he takes closer to Sylvain.

“They might have been responsible for Glenn,” he hisses.

Sylvain doesn’t have the words to soothe the wound that tears itself open at Felix’s declaration. He doesn’t have the words to try to bolster the hope shimmering in his voice as it wavers.

He knows only a few details, but knows enough. The entire reason Felix had become a private investigator was because of his brother’s death. The police and his father alike seemed to have just deemed the case a terrible accident, but even Sylvain’s been allowed to peek at the file every now and then, and after working with Felix so long, he knows when something’s been staged or not.

Sylvain’s eyes drift back to the folder, back to the paper atop it that makes his stomach twist. His brows furrow as he looks back to Felix. The determination setting his jaw and the fire burning his eyes amber don’t falter under Sylvain’s wilting expression.

“Felix, are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“This isn’t about me,” Felix snaps, as if anyone present would believe him. “This is about solving who killed Dimitri.”

“I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, Felix,” says Dimitri, voice soft over Sylvain’s shoulder.

“You’re not going,” Felix tells him.

“Yes, he is,” says Sylvain. “So is Claude.”

“Ex _cuse me_?”

“I’m not going to be the only one with you for what is going to be a nightmare confrontation with your father,” Sylvain says. He glances over his shoulder. “Is that alright with you, Dimitri?”

Whatever expression Sylvain’s making has Dimitri softening, his own concern echoing in the gentle knit of his brow as he nods.

“Of course.”

Sylvain nods, mouths _thank you_ , and turns back. He sets his shoulder, leveling a look to Felix. “You’re calling Claude. Or I will. We’ll go tomorrow. I have to make sure Annie and Dedue are alright with taking the morning shift.”

Felix looks ready to argue. Sylvain doesn’t give him the chance, moving past him to slip out into the front.

There’s not many people in the shop—there never usually is. Most people only come for to-go orders, rather than stay and linger in the booths and tables to be served pies and coffees. The few people that do sit and chat are mostly familiar faces, and Sylvain’s eyes hone in on Dedue, talking politely with a familiar face of one of the university’s students who always stays and uses their wi-fi.

Sylvain wonders, briefly, wildly, if he has Cornelia as a professor.

Dedue spots him as he moves to the front of the rounded counter, rearranging and shifting some of the display cases. Sylvain doesn’t need to look over when Dedue approaches, his footsteps soft against the tiled floor.

“How willing are you and Annie going to be to take the morning shift tomorrow?”

Dedue hums. Sylvain looks to him to see his eyes are on the people still in the back, visible through the archway. Dimitri actually has a hand on Felix’s shoulder, their voices too quiet to hear over the din of music and muffled talk around them.

“I’m alright with it,” says Dedue, after a moment. He seems to considers his words for a bit, before continuing with, “Is a field trip happening?”

Sylvain tries for a smile, and lands more on a grimace. “We’re going to visit Felix’s father.”

Dedue’s eyebrow raises. “Oh?”

“Apparently, he knew my father. And Dimitri’s.”

A more somber look takes his face. “Oh.”

“But if you and Annie don’t want to do it, I’m alright to—”

“You know it is no trouble,” Dedue cuts in, the interruption gentle, his knowledge of how quickly Sylvain gets into a ramble evident in the way he takes Sylvain’s wrist from where he’s been fidgeting with a napkin holder. He squeezes once, gently, before letting go. “We are more than happy to help, Sylvain.”

Sylvain scowls up at him. “You’re my employees, I shouldn’t have to shove all these responsibilities onto you.”

He smiles, just slightly, looking more amused than Sylvain thinks he ought to—but, then again, Dedue hasn’t read through the folder they’ve got sitting on the counter in the back, nor has he any inclination about what’s going to happen tomorrow. “I’ll talk to Annette. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.”

Sylvain huffs. “You _know_ she’s always too happy to help. I don’t want her to feel obligated.”

“Sylvain, we care about you,” Dedue says, his voice steady and serious, taking Sylvain by complete surprise. “Even without being able to tell her the full details of what’s happening, I know she only wants to help to make this ordeal less of a burden on your shoulders.”

“Hey, now—”

“You always try to do this. Ever since Mercedes left, you’ve decided everything that happens is something that you can control, and when it isn’t, you blame yourself.”

“Wh— _Dedue_.”

Dedue lifts an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

Sylvain splutters, trying to find an argument in his jumbled thoughts, but can’t. Dedue’s right.

He’s usually right.

Sylvain lets out a frustrated huff. “You’re not,” he admits, ignoring the pleased little smirk he gets at that. “I’m not happy about it.”

**.**

Sylvain’s not sure how he feels as he sits in the passenger seat, Dimitri sitting within his peripheral in the backseat. Felix has been quiet, his grip on the steering wheel as taut as the clench in his jaw. The only break in the tense silence is the music playing through the speakers. Claude’s choice—his insistence that they not sit in an awkward silence brought up as soon as they had all buckled in.

While Felix had grown up in the city, his father had retired to a small estate out in the countryside, dangerously close to where Mercedes is living. If Sylvain were a better man, he’d try to figure out a way to stop and see her. Instead, he watches as the scenery transitions from cityscape to the quiet meadows that line the winding, dirt roads Felix takes to reach his father’s.

He’s used to filling silences with sound—his words were the best option he had to build tall enough walls to keep people far enough away. There’s nothing he can think of to say in a situation as wild as this. No way to soothe the growing anxiety radiating off of Felix, no way to disuade Claude’s growing suspicion that they’re keeping more than just an attempted murder from him.

Dimitri’s decided to stay quiet, too, and Sylvain cannot fault him. He starts just by shooting quick glances towards him, but Dimitri’s eye stays locked on the window, watching the passing greenery covered in frost and the first layer of snow of the season. It evolves quickly to Sylvain just staring at him, Dimitri’s scarred eye preventing him from catching sight of Sylvain in his own peripheral. The sky outside is grey, clouds knit together into a blanket that dilutes the sun’s rays. It doesn’t stop Dimitri from looking amazing, dressed in a vibrant sweater Annette had picked out when she had heard they were going to be out and about in the snow.

Sylvain shouldn’t be surprised, but Dimitri looks really, _really_ , good in green.

An idle thought hits him, when Felix looks over and spots him staring before flicking his eyes in a roll to look back towards the road, that perhaps he _should_ stop staring, but he can’t. He thinks Dimitri might’ve already noticed and not minded, but the reflection in the window only heralds him, and Claude.

Claude, who Sylvain can feel watching _him_.

Sylvain looks to him, watching that smug, little smile Claude seems to always have on his face grow. His eyes practically _sparkle_ with amusement as he lifts an eyebrow, and when Sylvain scowls and looks away, he snorts, catching Dimitri’s attention.

Sylvain feels the heat burn through his face before Dimitri’s eye is even on him, but he just smiles warmly when he meets Sylvain’s gaze.

Every time Sylvain sees that smile, his heart starts to race. The thought that he’s even allowed to be on the receiving end of it, or any ounce of Dimitri’s affection, is one he’s still coming to terms with. Believing he’s worth any of it makes his anxiety skyrocket, his pulse jumps, but Dimitri’s smile is starting to soothe him whenever he gets that way.

He’s interrupted by Felix speaking, the first time he’s spoken in nearly twenty minutes.

“We’re almost there.”

Sylvain turns back to the road ahead of them. Intermittently sprinkled throughout the fields they pass are houses looking like they’ve been plucked from a country club magazine’s top ten picks for newest summer homes. They’re all set back away from the road, their driveways covered with wrought iron gates that are functionally useless besides to boost their owner’s egos for their aesthetic choices.

The driveway Felix turns into doesn’t have a gate. The drive is lined with snow-covered bushes that Sylvain’s certain bloom beautifully with roses once the snow melts. The house that awaits them isn’t truly what Sylvain had pictured compared to the others they had passed. It’s a modest two-story of stone, smoke swirling up into the air from the chimney.

Sylvain’s never met Felix’s father—only knows that they talk frequently enough despite Felix’s insistence on having a rocky relationship with him. He’s built an image up over their years of friendship, one that was almost completely knocked down by learning he used to work with Sylvain’s father. The house they pull up in front of starts to carefully craft the image once more, brick by brick, as Felix parks in front of the garage.

The cold nips at him as soon as he opens the passenger door. He’s used to it, and he’s bundled up, but the transition from heated car to snowy outside still makes him pause as he readjusts his scarf. He seems to handle it better than Claude, who’s muttering under his breath as soon as he steps outside.

“You alright?” Sylvain offers as Claude stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“He’s bad with the cold,” answers Felix and Claude makes a tiny face at him.

“I grew up in _Almyra_ , Felix.”

“Stop whining and hurry up.”

Dimitri shoots a smile over the car towards Sylvain at the exchange, who sends him a smile of his own back as they follow Felix up the front steps. Sylvain’s hands are in his pockets and he stands on the steps while Felix rings the bell, bickering with Claude the entire time about growing up in completely different environments. It’s almost enough to soothe his worry about what they’re going to have to deal with as soon as that front door opens.

Almost.

An elbow knocks against his and he glances over to Dimitri, who’s giving him a _look_ that tells him plainly Sylvain’s overthinking things.

“What a pair we make,” he murmurs. “We both overthink completely different things.”

Dimitri gives a soft laugh at that. “We’re going to give each other grey hair before we’re thirty.”

His heart does an odd little flop in his chest at the idea of them still being together that far into the future. His smile is infectious, based on the way Dimitri’s brightens. He shifts to bump his elbow back against Dimitri’s.

“Thanks.”

Dimitri’s smile breaks, just a little bit, his brow knitting together as he looks towards the door. “Don’t thank me quite yet.”

Sylvain turns his attention back just in time to watch the door swing open. The man that stands at the threshold, looking at them all in mild shock, is definitely Felix’s father. The similarities between their inky dark hair and their facial structures is impeccable—the only difference is instead of Felix’s coppery gaze, an icy blue stares at them, blinking as he takes them all in.

“Felix, my son! What a pleasant surprise!”

Felix greets his father with a grunt, before pulling a hand out of his jacket pocket to gesture. “You remember Claude.”

Sylvain shoots Dimitri a look, quirking a brow, as Rodrigue assures Claude it’s a pleasure to see him again. It’s only when he turns back that he sees the bright and cheerful smile on Rodrigue Fraldarius’ face as he shakes Claude’s hand. Felix’s shoulders are tense, but he doesn’t look too unhappy, which is a good sign.

The best sign he could hope for, Sylvain thinks. He exhales a low breath, watching as it billows out in a small cloud behind Claude. The movement catches Rodrigue’s attention, and his smile falters, confusion starting to replace it completely until his eyes dart over to Dimitri. The smile breaks completely as soon as his eyes land on him.

A chill runs down Sylvain’s spine that has nothing to do with the snowflakes melting in his hair.

“Dimitri.” Rodrigue’s voice is a whisper, the _anguish_ in it something Sylvain can’t fully understand for someone who’s never met Dimitri. Before he can process it, though, those eyes are back on him, recognition clear in his eyes. “And you must be Sylvain.”

Felix curses under his breath. “Let us in.”

Rodrigue blinks, shaking himself. He steps aside, holding the door open for them. Felix kicks his shoes off haphazardly while the others follow inside. It seems like a switch has been flipped in Rodrigue’s mind from shock to _good host_. They’ve barely taken their shoes off before Rodrigue is offering them tea to drink. Despite the script that’s clearly been honed after years of playing the part, Rodrigue’s eyes stay locked onto Dimitri, only straying to Sylvain on occasion.

“I do have an extensive collection of tea, I can get the kettle started—”

“We don’t have time for pleasantries,” Felix growls. “You know Sylvain and Dimitri.”

Rodrigue blinks, looking taken aback for a moment before he sighs. “I did meet you once, Sylvain, back when you were very young. As for Dimitri. . .You look just like Lambert.”

Dimitri stiffens, taking in a breath. Sylvain steps just a smidge closer, resting his hand at the small of his back, and Dimitri all but melts into it the touch. They don’t get a chance to speak, as Rodrigue looks from Dimitri, to Felix, and back, his brow knit together.

“I thought,” he begins, his words slow and carefully picked, “you were dead.”

“Well, he’s not,” Felix states.

“Apparently so,” Rodrigue says, a wry smile tilting his lips. “When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it.”

“ _Your_ former associates tried to kill him and failed. If word got out that Dimitri was actually alive, all hell would break loose.”

Rodrigue’s lips part, but Claude steps forward, resting a hand on Felix’s shoulder. Sylvain doesn’t miss the way Felix imperceptibly leans into the touch. Sylvain can’t see Claude’s face, but he doesn’t need to to know there’s an easy, masked smile on his face.

“You know what, I think I will take you up on that tea offer.”

Felix turns to Claude, his expression already showing his betrayal, but Rodrigue looks relieved. He guides them to a small sitting room while he hurries to the kitchen, and while Felix mutters angrily at Claude, Sylvain takes a chance to look around as he settles on a loveseat with Dimitri, a respectable distance between them as he adjusts his gloves.

He had expected something more _plain_ when they had first spotted the manse. Something that showcased fancy furniture, with expensive paintings on the wall—somewhere that didn’t look lived in. Here, it’s clear that Rodrigue had taken the time to showcase just how proud of a father he is.

It’s a _home_. Instead of random landscapes, the walls are decorated with two rows of school portraits, one of Felix growing from a chubby-cheeked child to the striking, sharp-jawed man he is today. The other row holds who Sylvain knows to be Glenn, despite having never seen any photos of him before this. Felix rarely spoke of his brother outside of the context of his death, but when he did, it was always with a sense of pride, and an underlying anger at his life being cut short.

Felix and Claude sit on the couch opposite them, Claude’s head tilted to listen to Felix’s berating, but his eyes darting around the room, taking it all in as Sylvain does. Sylvain’s certain there are things he hasn’t caught that Claude’s sharp, critical eyes see. All Sylvain can see is a liveable home, a place where tea is served because the people are _wanted_ and not just to show off.

It reminds him of the nights he’d sneak across the street as a child, just to spend some time with Dimitri in a place that felt warm and safe.

Rodrigue carries a tray in, complete with a kettle and different types of tea. A thoroughly good host, Sylvain muses, but still opts to go without as Claude keeps a narrowed stare on the man. Sylvain’s eyes are caught on Dimitri, who still keeps his gloves on even when he has a steaming mug in his hand.

There’s an anticipation in the air, fueled by Felix outright glaring at his father. Sylvain goes through a script in his head, trying to piece together the best way to pop the bubble, to get the dam to burst, but he doesn’t have to.

Apparently, inviting Claude along was better for more than just moral support.

Claude’s taken a long, drawn out sip of his tea, murmuring a compliment that barely breaks the fueled silence. He settles deeper on the couch, tossing his free arm across the back. Sylvain doesn’t miss the way his fingers brush Felix’s hair.

“Mr Fraldarius,” he begins, his tone smooth—jovial, even, given the topic that needs to be discussed. “We need you to be honest with us. What did Cornelia do to Glenn?”

“Cornelia?” Rodrigue looks startled, before his eyes flick to Sylvain. He shakes his head after a moment. “I don’t think Cornelia had anything to do with Glenn’s death.”

“He was _murdered_ ,” Felix snarls, sitting forward, setting his mug on the side table. “Just like Cornelia intended for Dimitri.”

Rodrigue glances to him, his brows furrowing as he looks away. “From what I know, Cornelia had no part in Glenn’s death—”

Felix’s face twists in rage, but Rodrigue continues before he can interrupt.

“— _but_ it is possible that she holds some responsibility. Glenn was young, back when we worked with her, but he probably remembered. . .peculiarities. If he got too close. . .”

He trails off, a distraught look overcoming him. Claude doesn’t let him linger in silence, still poised casually, his eyes still sharp.

“Peculiarities?” he questions. “How interesting. Tell me, sir—if you don’t mind, of course—what peculiarties normally lead to murder?” His head tilts, eyes landing on Dimitri. “Or attempted murder?”

“The people Cornelia—and myself—worked with. . .They were scientists. Or so they said. I got into working alongside them because of Lambert.”

“My father,” Dimitri murmurs, voice soft and sad.

Rodrigue nods. “I would’ve followed Lambert to the ends of the world, had he asked that of me.”

“Pathetic,” states Felix.

“Perhaps,” says Rodrigue, sounding tired instead of insulted. “Your mother and I left their group and distanced ourselves before you were born, Felix.”

Felix just glares, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. It’s Claude that speaks, his brows knitting together.

“What did they do to make you change your mind?”

Rodrigue’s eyes flick to Sylvain, briefly, making him straighten, his eyes narrowing at the man. For as polite and well-mannered Rodrigue has been, there’s no saying what the group he had been involved in had done.

“We left—.” He stops, takes a breath. His eyes are on the cup of his tea. “We left when they started experimenting on children.”

Sylvain’s eyes drop to his hands, willing them to relax from the clench he has them in against his thighs. He can feel two pairs of eyes burning into him.

“I couldn’t stand for that,” Rodrigue continues. “Glenn was young, so your mother and I left.”

“You just left,” says Felix, disgust clear in his tone. “Knowing what they were doing.”

“I believe _they_ believed they were doing what was for the best, but even still, they were attempting things they had no full knowledge of—let alone control.” Rodrigue looks down at the cup of tea in his hands, the shame plain on his face. “I should have done more than I did to stop them, but I was—.” He stops, brows furrowing as his mouth twists. He looks up suddenly, a fierceness in his eyes as he looks to Felix. “It’s no true excuse, but I did not want the same things to happen to Glenn, or _you_ , Felix. While we left the group, I still spoke with both Lambert and your father, Sylvain.” He turns back to Felix after a brief look to where Sylvain and Dimitri are sitting. “Your mother wasn’t that far along when they declared Sylvain’s experiment a success. I knew had we stayed, you would’ve been next to be worked on.”

“What about Dimitri?” Sylvain asks. He feels like he’s been punched, the air ripped from his lungs. Anxiety shivers up his spine, causing his hands to start to tremble from where he’s gripping at his thighs. “If only you left—what about Dimitri?”

“Lambert was adamant that he would only provide funding,” says Rodrigue. “He said he truly believed they were doing the right thing—but it was obvious where his true priorities laid.”

Sylvain can’t breathe. His heart is pounding, his ears starting to ring. “Will you—excuse me—” He barely manages to bite the words out before he’s standing, basically fleeing from the room. He leaves his shoes off as he hurries out the front door, the cold air a shock to his system, but not one enough to stop his spiral as he leans against the porch railing, gasping despite telling himself he needs to breathe slower.

Dimitri finds him moments later, while Sylvain’s caught in a loop of trying to audibly count out his breaths. It’s not going great for him, and based on the way Dimitri’s hand smooths up his arm, it’s noticeable.

“How can I help?” he asks, voice soft over the sound of Sylvain’s wheezing.

Sylvain shakes his head. There’s nothing Dimitri _can_ do. This is all Sylvain’s fault. From the start. Had his body not accepted whatever the hell those slithering bastards put into him, this wouldn’t have happened. They could have had a normal life. Sylvain wouldn’t have killed Dimitri’s father. Felix might have been their friend from childhood, his brother wouldn’t be dead—

Sylvain wouldn’t have killed Dimitri’s father.

The railing isn’t enough to support him anymore. He sinks to his knees, breathing hitching again. He’s not aware that he’s even managing to spit words from his lungs until Dimitri’s hands are on his shoulders, gloved fingers pushing his hair away from his eyes.

“Sylvain, I know—I figured it out once you told me how your powers worked. There was no other way for both my father and Miklan to die the same day. It’s alright, you didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t realize what would happen.”

“But I didn’t _tell_ you,” Sylvain manages, his voice broken. “After all this time, I didn’t even mention it! I was so selfish—all this time, I couldn’t even be bothered to tell you I killed your father! It’s my fault—”

“ _None_ of this is your fault, Sylvain.”

“But—”

“No.” Dimitri’s voice is firm, almost regal. His hands are still cupping his face and Sylvain has to shove his own hands in his pockets just in case he wants to reach out for him. “It was not your fault. You were a _child._ They experimented on you, Sylvain, it’s not your fault.”

Sylvain can’t form proper words, arguments still on the tip of his tongue that he knows Dimitri won’t listen to. Dimitri doesn’t even look like he’d listen to anything he’d say, his eye staring at something over Sylvain’s shoulder, thoughts warring on his face. Sylvain carefully pulls his hand from his pocket to wipe at his face. Dimitri’s hands stay cupping his jaw and he looks back to him, eye snapping to his gaze, suddenly full of determination.

“I’ve realized something,” he says, voice quick. “Sylvain, if they _put_ something in you to cause your ability—” He stops, taking a breath, holding his gaze. “Sylvain, it might be reversible.”

Sylvain lets out an exhale, his voice trembling as he echoes, “Reversible.”

Dimitri's hands are warm through his gloves, radiating into Sylvain's skin where he cups his jaw. His thumb brushes along the arc of his cheek, his smile small— _hopeful._ "Reversible."  
He thinks about how _easy_ it would be to lean that little bit of distance between them, how soft Dimitri might feel against him, what the vanilla lip balm he insisted on using might taste on his tongue. He almost dares to dream of what it’d be like to nuzzle against him in the early mornings, feel the warmth of his skin under his fingertips.

_Reversible._

His lips part, a shaky breath escaping him, but before either can say anything, the front door opens. Felix glances around before spotting where they’re kneeling on the porch, his expression already stormy. He looks away apologetically, exhaling.

“We’re going to have to have a talk. With everyone.”

Sylvain looks to Dimitri, whose gaze is on him, eye brilliantly blue in the pale light. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, and that bright eye drops to follow the movement. Sylvain nods.

“Yeah—yeah, okay.”

**.**

The bakery is quiet, the only noise the low thrum of heater and the muted sound of ceramic clinking as everyone shuffles their cups around. Outside the windows, the city is quiet as snow falls in swirling flakes, layering the streets with thin sheets as they sleep.

Sylvain feels like he’s on trial, sitting smushed between Felix and Dedue with two pairs of eyes boring into him. Thankfully, Dimitri’s got his eye on the street outside, leaving him free of another gaze to burn into whatever’s left of his soul.

Annette sits with her arms crossed, brow furrowed as a confused scowl contorts her face, while Claude’s head is tilted, curiosity bright in his gaze.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first, with a click of his tongue.

Sylvain winces at the sound, and sits back when Claude shifts to lean forward on his elbows.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” he drawls, his eyes narrowing. “But is it possible for you to show us your. . .talent?”

“It’s not a talent,” Sylvain says, at the same time Felix goes, “My gun is in the car if you want it, Claude.”

All of their eyes go to him. Felix quirks a brow. “You want proof, you’re going to have to die first.”

"Hm." Claude's eyes flick towards Sylvain, inspecting his face. "Nah, it's fine. If you touch Dimitri, Dimitri dies.”

“That’s how it works,” says Sylvain.

"That's why you're obsessed with gloves!" Annette interjects, standing up and slamming her hands on the table. Their cups rattle as she looks to Dimitri, who is helpless to do anything but nod at her declaration. "Ooh, I knew you were hiding things!"

"I do owe you an apology, Annette," Dedue tells her.

"No, it's fine, I don't blame _you._ " Sharp, bright blue eyes bore into Sylvain, her glare two steps short of Felix level lethal.

"Sorry, Annie,” he offers with a smile.

She lifts her chin, sitting back down primly, hands smoothing over her shirt. "Apology accepted. Now what?"

“Now, we try to figure out how to find the evidence needed to show Cornelia _did_ orchestrate Dimitri’s murder,” says Felix. “And, whatever the hell they did to Sylvain to see if we can reverse it.”

“I’ve studied under Cornelia,” Annette says. “I’ll do some more research—maybe she slipped up somewhere. I can start with the crests. I’ve already gotten a few books since Sylvain asked me about them originally.”

Sylvian’s eyes dart to her. She smiles, smug, and practically preens under the attention when the others voice what a smart move that was.

“I’m aware. You’re not as subtle as you’d like to be, Sylvain.”

“Well, I can’t really tack on _dead raiser_ after _pie maker_ on my business card, can I?”

“You’d have to add an asterisk,” says Claude, eyes sparkling with mirth. “ _Terms and Conditions apply._ ”

“Alright, enough,” Felix says, half a growl, half a sigh. “It’s late. We have more leads than we’ve had this entire time. We’ll start in the morning.”

Dedue slips out of the booth so Sylvain and Felix can follow. Claude gives Felix a smile, something slightly more real than Sylvain’s spotted on his face the few times he’s seen him.

“You’ve driven so much today—want me to drive you home?”

“You live on the other side of the city,” Felix states.

“That’s not a no.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“Do you know how to drive on icy roads, Claude?” Sylvain asks, following them to the front door, ready to lock up behind them.

“I have good tires on my car, thank you,” Claude says, quirking a brow at him as he tugs his coat on. “We’ll be fine.”

Sylvain turns to Felix, who’s buttoning his coat. “Text me to make sure he hasn’t ended up killing the both of you.”

Felix waves him off, following Claude out into the cold night. Sylvain shuts the door behind them, sliding the lock into place and catches sight of both of them leaning against one another as they make their way down the street to where Claude’s car is parked. Behind him, visible in the light reflection, he can see Annie shrugging into her heavy coat, arguing in soft tones with Dedue about being able to dig deeper into her research _now_ instead of waiting, while Dedue insists she needs some sleep.

Dimitri’s still sitting at the table, his half drank mug in front of him. Dedue glances over at them both, his brows starting to knit, but Sylvain shakes his head.

“I’m going to finish cleaning up. Have a good night, you two. Get some sleep, Annette.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Annette calls, but she and Dedue slip through the pony door, heading out the back without giving Sylvain a chance for a rebuttal.  
Dimitri glances over once Sylvain meanders back, collecting the mugs. He blinks at him, eyes dropping to the small smile Sylvain gives him.

“You alright?”

Dimitri’s mouth opens. Sylvain knows an _I’m fine_ is on its way, but he stops, jaw clicking shut, brow furrowing. He looks back down to his mug, worrying at his bottom lip. Sylvain sets the mugs aside, sitting back down.

“I’m just. . .unsure.”

“Unsure?” Sylvain asks, a pang of fear going through him. He tries to calm himself in the span of a heartbeat, his fingers furling on top of his thighs before he stuffs them into his pockets. “Unsure of what?”

“My role,” Dimitri says. He lifts a hand to gesture. “In all of this.”

“Your role?”

“I just—.” He stops, sighing. “I know my uncle works closely with Cornelia. I don’t see how she could think my death would be a warning to him. My uncle,—he doesn't care that much about me. Cornelia targeting me doesn’t make sense.”

Sylvain frowns, glancing down to the table top. There’s plenty of possibilities that have been floating through his mind. Plenty of ones that Felix has brought forth but hasn’t had the heart to bring up to Dimitri.

“You have an idea.” Dimitri’s voice is soft, and when Sylvain looks up, there’s no hint of malice over him hiding thoughts from him. “Tell me?”

He’s truly undeserving of Dimitri’s forgiveness—of his kindness.

Sylvain exhales, shifting in the seat. His leg is shaking and he has to consciously stop the jittery, nervous movement as he thinks of the easiest way to break his thoughts.

He starts with a question: “Do you know what your uncle’s will says?”

Dimitri blinks at him, obviously startled. He looks away as he thinks it over, his expression growing more unnerved by the second. After another moment, he slowly shakes his head. “I don’t.”

“It’s possible—.” Sylvain stops. Thinks. He goes through a few different phrases and decides Dimitri doesn’t need, or want, flowery words. “ _I_ think—maybe—that Cornelia had you killed to get to his will. It’s possible that even if you aren’t listed in it, as the only other Blaiddyd running around you’d get your hands on everything. If Cornelia wanted funding, or even the old house, she could have had you killed to get you out of the picture before ensuring her place in it.”

Sylvain watches the realization crest over his face. Dimitri’s lips part as his eye widens slightly.

“Oh.”

Sylvain gives him a tiny smile. “Sorry.”

A shake of his head. “No, that—that makes perfect sense. My uncle is not very. . .well-mannered, I suppose.” His face colours and he scratches at his cheek as he looks away when Sylvain’s eyebrows raise. “He likes to spend money on, ah, what pleases him. With very little concern for anything else.”

“I see,” Sylvain says. “Sounds like me before I hit my second year in college.”

Dimitri scoffs at that, a flash of real anger on his face as he looks back to Sylvain. “ _Never_ say that about yourself. I can assure you that even at your worst, you’d be leagues better than him at his best.”

Sylvain lifts an eyebrow. He’s tempted to reach across the table to where Dimitri’s got his hands curled into tight fists, but he’s not wearing gloves. He settles for leaning forward, just a smidge, to catch Dimitri’s eye.

“You sure about that? I was a real brat back then.”

Dimitri huffs, holding his gaze steadily, earnest and honest. “I’m certain.”

Sylvain considers the pros and cons of starting an argument about it, but drops them before he can formulate anything. Instead, he smiles.

“It’s late. Should we head upstairs?”

Dimitri nods, collecting his own mug as Sylvain gathers the others again. They don’t as they slip into the back, as Dimitri waits with a hip against the counter as Sylvain hurriedly washes them. His phone buzzes as he’s locking the backdoor behind them as they slip into the alley, Felix’s _not dead_ text short and to the point, like always. He shows it to Dimitri, who laughs, a hand lifting to cover his mouth at his amused grin.

It’s infectious, that smile. Always so hesitant, but when given freely, so breathtaking. He looks like someone gifted to the world by the goddess herself with snowflakes swirling around him, his cheeks and nose already going red from the chill, eye crinkled in the corner.

He stops walking. Dimitri stops a step ahead of him, tilting his head at Sylvain’s sudden pause.

Sylvain wants nothing more than to kiss him.

Instead, he pulls his keys out. He pries the one for the bakery off the ring before holding them out, carefully.

“I forgot something. Go on up—I’ll be back right behind you.”

Dimitri’s eye narrows, just slightly, but he nods, holding his palm out for Sylvain to drop the keys into it without a chance of their skin touching. Sylvain takes the few steps back to the bakery slowly, waiting until he spots Dimitri turn the corner before unlocking the door.

And, once he’s inside with the door shut behind him, he buries his face in his hands and screams.

**.**

His alarm goes off at seven.

The sky is still mostly dark when he rolls over to shut it off. Dedue had assured and reassured him three times the day before that Sylvain was allotted the chance to sleep in after their adventure to the Fraldarius household, but as soon as he had gotten upstairs last night he had decided not to push it too far.

Besides, he doubts actually sleeping in is going to be possible until they figure out how to get Cornelia out of their lives permanently.

Regardless of his intentions, it still takes him a bit to climb from the bed. The apartment is quiet as he walks to the bathroom, a bundle of clothes in his arms. It dawns on him how unsettling that is. Dimitri’s been a constant presence for what feels like forever now, and the silence is unnerving at best.

He drops his clothes on the counter before checking Dimitri’s room. While the bedding is messy, the bed itself is empty, and he frowns, going on a hunt.

His hunt proves fruitless—Sylvain is alone in the apartment, the only sign of Dimitri’s presence is a plate sitting in the sink with bagel crumbs on it. Sylvain finds the note he left on the back of the front door, just letting him know he couldn’t sleep well and opted to head downstairs to help Dedue with any prepwork.

The fact that his employees are working harder than he is gives him a kick and he rushes through his morning routine, still fluffing oil through his hair as he slips out into the hall. By the time he’s downstairs, it’s barely eight, and the sleepy feeling of the day follows him outside.

The city is waking up, everyone deciding a lazy snow day was best. While the sun is shimmering, it’s still shockingly cold. Sylvain follows a small, shoveled path to the back door of the bakery, slipping his key in the lock.

The sight that greets him once he steps inside is one that makes his heart soar. Dedue is standing next to Dimitri at the baker’s table, both apron-clad and flour smeared. Dimitri’s hair is tied up off his neck in a bun, the small braid lacing his bangs back a telltale that Annie got a hold of him to help secure it. He’s cautiously rolling a crust out over a dish, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he listens to Dedue’s instructions.

At the back counter, sitting on a stool, Annette’s kicking her legs as she sits surrounded by a stack of books. Her own hair is braided back in two tails, a look of pure concentration on her face as her eyes flicker over words.

It’s been quite some time since he’s felt this comfortable walking into the shop. He almost feels uneasy at the comfort. For half a heartbeat, he imagines going over to where Dimitri is, wrapping his arms around him and kissing the back of his neck.

And then the image of Miklan going stockstill before falling over fills his mind.

He turns away, busying his hands with his coat, as he hears Dedue compliment Dimitri and he chances a glance over. Dimitri’s smile is wide, the compliment resulting in a dusty rose colouring his cheeks. He shrugs out of his coat as he drops his gaze to the pie itself, where there’s not a visible crack or issue with the dough.

“Coming for my business, Blaiddyd?” he asks, light and teasing, just to watch the way colour spots high on Dimitri’s cheeks.

“I could never dream of it,” Dimitri tells him, flustering when Sylvain just winks at him before making his way over to Annette.

She barely looks up from the book she’s reading, a furrow to her brow, chin propped up by her fists. Sylvain peeks over her head, the printed words tiny, immediately blending together as Annette moves to flip the page.

“How goes it?”

“Crests are symbolic of stones,” she says, sounding irritated.“I don’t know what it means.” She looks up at him, dropping the back of her hands to the book in front of her. “That’s all I’ve got and I have _no_ idea what that means! I’ve looked through Cornelia’s published books and now I’m on _this_ —,” she gestures to the page of nothing but a wall of text, with three inches of footnotes at the bottom, “—and I’m _trying_.”

Sylvain drops a kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t overwork yourself on my behalf. Take a break if you need to.”

“I don’t need a _break_ ,” she scoffs.

Sylvain expected as much, but he thought it might have been worth a shot. Based on the look he gets from Dedue when he turns back, it’s at least appreciated. He gives Dedue a slight shrug before leaving Annie to her research as he pushes through the pony door.

He makes his rounds, going through his checklist in his head as he looks over the floor. Dedue’s already handled the display cases and to-go box stand at the counter, everything’s still wiped down and clean, prepared for open.

As soon as he slips back, he makes a beeline for Annette.

Dedue’s moved on to coating the pies that need to rest in the freezer, Dimitri at his side helping move the pans to the rack. There’s a rack in the oven already, spinning slowly, and Sylvain checks the timer before turning his full attention to Annette. He leans a palm next to where her elbows on the counter top, leaning over her.

“Alright, you’re not allowed to spend your day off back here.”

Annette puffs her cheeks out with pout, eyes narrowing up at him. “Says _who_.”

“Says _me_.” He starts collecting her books for her, avoiding her swats. “It’s illegal. C’mon, go.” He lifts his free hand, gesturing. “Shoo.”

The offense that crosses Annette’s face is as fierce as any other expression she gets. “Don’t shoo me, you villian!”

“Perhaps,” comes Dedue’s voice from behind them, “it would be easier to focus upstairs.”

Annie frowns over at him. “Are you trying to get rid of me, too?”

Dedue shrugs elegantly, despite his hands still moving as he keeps working. “I am just saying, sitting in your armchair in front of the fire is more comfortable than on a stool next to the freezer.”

Her eyes narrow, a _hmm_ falling from her lips. She lifts her chin. “Fine. I’ll go sit upstairs and read.”

Before she leaves, she all but skips to Dedue, rolling up onto her tiptoes while he bends down so she can give him a cheek kiss, asking if he wants something fancy for his lunch break. When they settle their plans, Dimitri’s next on the list for cheek kisses, and Sylvain walks her to the door before he gets his. There’s fresh snow collecting on the path that had been shovelled, but it’s still clear enough that Annette’s boots don’t crunch when she steps out, her breath puffing in white wisps as she starts to hum.

Sylvain closes the door only once she’s rounded the corner, and locks it before he walks back. With their newest batch of pies being prepped and there already being a rack in the oven, there’s not much for him to do that wouldn’t put him within touching distance of Dimitri.

Luckily for him, he barely manages to take a step towards the stool Annie was using before his phone buzzes with a message in his pocket. Felix informs him he has news, and he’s rounding the corner to the backdoor. Sylvain stuffs down a sigh as he puts his phone away, going back towards the door to let him in.

It takes Felix half a moment to arrive at the door, looking windswept and cold, shoulders hunched up to his ears to combat the chill. He hardly pays Sylvain a glance as he moves inside, his eyes going straight towards Dimitri. His fingers are dug into the strap of his bag, and Sylvain already knows that whatever news he has isn’t going to be good.

He flicks the lock on the door and follows Felix, who stops near the counter, eyes darting between Dimitri and Sylvain.

“What’s up?”

Felix makes a face. He sets his bag on the stool Annie had been sitting on, rummaging through it. Dedue’s pulling the pie rack from the oven, leaving Dimitri to wander over to lean against the counter as Felix’s brows furrow as he digs through folders and papers sticking in his bag. Before he finds what he’s searching for, Sylvain hears the backdoor open and straightens, head whirling to look.

Claude strolls in, dressed for the weather, snow melting in his hair as he waltzes in from outside. Sylvain feels his face contort, but before he can speak, Claude’s eyes have landed on Dimitri.

"Dimitri, is your relationship with your uncle good or bad?"

Dimitri startles at the same time as Felix gives up on his search, his own face twisting as Claude sweeps into the room, a casual smile on his face.

"Oh, um, well, it's—. It's not great."

"How did you get in here?" Sylvain asks.

He goes ignored.

"That's good—well, it's not, but makes things easier,” Claude declares, rubbing his hands together. “Anyway, I have good news and bad news.”

"I locked that door," says Sylvain.

Claude places a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. "Which would you like to hear first?"

"Did you pick the lock?"

"Sylvain.” Felix flicks his eyes at him. “Enough."

“He _picked_ the lock!”

The only one who pays him any heed is Dedue, who gives him a passive look before returning to his tasks as Claude rounds on Dimitri.

“Good news,” he says, lifting his left hand. He lifts his right, following with, “Or bad news?”

Dimitri’s eye glances to Sylvain before he looks to Claude. “The. . .good news? I suppose.”

“Okay, good.” Claude looks to Felix. “You didn’t tell him the news, right?”

“I just walked in,” Felix informs him.

Claude nods. “So, the good news, is we’ve found enough evidence to prove Cornelia put a hit on Rufus. From what we’ve found, you weren’t the intended target, Dimitri.”

Dimitri blinks, his jaw dropping. “Wh—? _What_?”

Sylvain crosses his arms as Claude starts to explain, his suspicion growing. “Claude.” Green eyes glance to him, an eyebrow raising. “What’s the bad news?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain drawls, “ _that_.”

“Well! Dimitri, you’re certain you have a bad relationship with your uncle?”

“I do,” says Dimitri, frowning. “What’s your next news?”

“Cornelia succeeded this time.”

Sylvain jolts. “ _What_?”

Felix pulls a piece of paper from his bag, handing it over to Dimitri. Sylvain can barely see the headline that’s been photocopied.

Rufus Blaiddyd was found dead in the airport bathroom after his flight returned from Almyra.

“She got sloppy,” Felix states. “She assumed the only one who would care about Rufus’ death was already dead. No one’s going to look into what appears to be an overdose in an airport bathroom.”

“Except for us,” says Claude, “because why not.”

“Even with knowing what Cornelia’s done to Rufus, we still have no idea what she’s done to Sylvain. How’s Annette’s research?”

“Still ongoing,” Sylvain says, only half paying attention as Claude and Felix try to start scheming.

His eyes are on Dimitri, who’s reading over the article Felix had given him. He doesn’t look upset—just confused, baffled. He frowns, but not out of sadness. Sylvain curls his fingers before he can reach out, though he doesn’t need to. His stare must be burning. Dimitri glances up over the paper, meeting his gaze. His face relaxes, ever so slightly, and he mouths I’m okay, as Claude and Felix keep talking.

“Wait, I have a plan!” Claude announces suddenly, spreading his hands. His eyes don’t go to any of them, instead going beyond Felix to where Dedue stands at the baker’s table, obviously listening in. Claude all but saunters to him, tilting his head, eyeing Dedue.

Dedue’s own eyes narrow down at him and he crosses his arms.

Claude grins—bright and mischievous. “How good of an actor are you?”

Dedue pins him with a level stare. “Excuse me?”

“Are you a good actor?” he asks again. “Is Annette?”

Dedue looks to Sylvain first, before his gaze darts to Felix. Felix, who’s staring at Claude with narrowed eyes.

“I was assuming you were going for blackmail, not acting,” he says.

Claude grins. “Oh, no, blackmail’s the back up plan. Acting’s the first.”

“I’m not letting you send Dedue and Annette into Cornelia’s grasp when we know she’s dangerous,” says Sylvain. “If anyone’s going, it’s me.”

“You’re not as subtle with questioning as you might hope to be, Sylvain,” Claude states. “Annette studied under Cornelia. She should be there.”

“If Annie’s going, I’m going,” Sylvain tells him. “But you’d have to ask her if she even wants to put herself in that kind of danger.”

“If too many people go, Cornelia might feel threatened,” Felix interrupts. “We’ll ask Annette to get us in.” He turns, his eyes sharp when they land on Sylvain. “Then you and I will go with her.”

“She’ll recognize me,” says Sylvain. “She’ll probably recognize you.”

“Good,” Felix says. “I hope she does.”

Dedue’s arms are still crossed. When Sylvain looks at him, he looks torn, staring between Felix and Claude.

“She’ll want to,” he says, “of that I’m sure. But. . .”

“We’ll keep her safe,” says Sylvain. “I’m not going to let Cornelia lay a single finger on her.”

“Are you sure you can guarantee that?”

“He can’t,” states Felix. “But I can.”

It takes a bit of plotting. Dedue only relents to even bringing the plan up to Annette once Felix has assured and reassured him three times over that Annie will be the first one out if there’s even a hint of danger, knowing full well Annie will agree to go headfirst into whatever situation they’re going to end up in.

They could—probably—just waltz in, but the idea of walking in without a set plan, without a set list of questions, makes Sylvain’s anxiety rise. There’s no telling how Cornelia will react to seeing him, or seeing Felix. Slipping in, making sure they can catch her unawares is the key, which means they need to get Annette to schedule a visit with her former professor.

Claude departs as soon as the shop’s open, a subtle demand to be kept in the loop on his tongue as he slips out into the snow. As soon as the door’s unlocked, Sylvain sends Dedue upstairs for an extended break while Felix goes through his files at a booth and Dimitri stays up front to keep an eye out for any early morning pie goers.

When Dedue slips back through the door twenty-two minutes later, he brings with him the news that Annette’s sent Cornelia an email, requesting a personal office visit.

Sylvain relays the news to Felix, who frowns at him as soon as he tells him.

“Now we have to wait,” he states.

Sylvain smiles, somewhat amused. There’s a tension in the air that he knows he’s able to break with just a few words, so he gives it a shot.

“Patience is a virtue, Fe.”

The gesture Felix gives him at that has Dimitri trying to hide a laugh in an undignified snort from the counter. Sylvain throws a pout over his shoulder at him, lamenting about being bullied in times of stress.

Dimitri’s smile turns sympathetic, but still mostly amused. “Is it bullying?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sylvain and Felix say at the same time.

When Sylvain turns to pin him with a look, Felix just lifts an eyebrow.

“You deserve it.”

“Mean! That’s mean! Dedue, they’re being mean to me!”

“ _You can handle it yourself,_ ” comes Dedue’s response from the back, causing Dimitri to start to giggle as Felix breaks off into snickers.

Sylvain huffs, doing his best to keep a pout on his face, but the tension in the air has snapped and his exhale is more relieved sigh than anything else. The only one who catches his smile is Dimitri, his eye sparkling. Sylvain knows he’s been caught, but can’t find it in himself to mind with that gentle smile in his direction.

**.**

Cornelia sends a response two days later.

She claims she’s cleared her personal schedule in the evening, finishing up the final paperwork her students have turned in. Annette reads the email with a faux voice that reminds Sylvain of all the wannabe debutantes he had grown up to whenever his father pulled him from boarding school to attend parties.

“Did you warn her you’re not coming alone?” Dedue questions.

“I told her I’d be bringing my friend,” Annie answers, easily, looking far too relaxed about the situation at hand.

“She might have looked you up,” Claude says. “Finding out your employer is easy enough—and finding out your employer acts as a part time private investigator on the side is easier for anyone who knows how to look into these types of things.”

“If she has, then she knows exactly why we’re coming,” she states. “That makes things easier.”

Claude’s words do nothing to deter Annie—nor Felix. Both of them seem more prepared than Sylvain is. The questions they have all have answers.

He’s just not entirely sure he wants the answers to his own.

The best case scenario is that Cornelia has a change of heart as soon as she sees Sylvain and reverses whatever they did to him as a kid. He doesn’t even let himself imagine that’s an actual possibility—she’s made it clear she holds no qualms with what she’s done.

The university isn’t far from the _Pie Hole_. Walking, even in snow, proves to be the better option than trying to carpool when everyone is insistent on coming with. The city is quiet, the snow that had fallen overnight shoveled aside, the sidewalks they cross crunching under heel from scattered salt. He walks side by side with Dimitri, watching his breath fog and fade in wisps. He keeps his hands in his pockets, despite his gloves, the lingering fear that’s been in the back of his mind since first waking Dimitri in the morgue ever present.

There’s hardly anyone else walking outside on the grounds as the afternoon bleeds into early evening. It’s been quite some time since Sylvain’s stepped foot onto the campus. Annette leads them, her hand clutched in Dedue’s as she walks with a surefootedness. She and Dedue wear matching knit beanies, their breaths mingling into white clouds as they talk to one another. Claude and Felix are a few steps behind Sylvain and Dimitri, arguing about where they should get dinner once _this is all over_. Felix is hellbent to stay on his stance of _this is bigger than a quick trip_ , while Claude just keeps listing different restaurants on the other side of the city they could go to.

Dimitri hasn’t spoken much. Sylvin walks on his right, at his blind side. He looks as lost in thought as Sylvain is, snowflakes stirred from the rooftops by the wind melting in his golden hair, blue eye downcast to the sidewalk. He senses Sylvain’s eyes on him, turning to face him. His cheeks and nose are pink from the cold and Sylvain wants to lean forward and kiss him, chase the chill on his skin away.

All he does is smile, though, and turn back ahead, fingers flexing in his pockets.

Annette leads them to a tall, brick building that Sylvain had walked by multiple times as a student but never went into. The heavy wooden doors creak as she pushes it open, and they cross the threshold to a low-ceiling, carpeted entrance that smells vaguely, concerningly, like wet dog.

They had agreed before that it would be best if Sylvain, Annette, and Felix headed through the building by themselves, leaving Dimitri, Claude, and Dedue in the entrance. There’s a few sofas and couches, the heater sounding like it’s chugging along. There’s an elevator across the room with a caution tape hanging across it, making Sylvain’s lips press together.

Even when he was a student, he knew that this school hardly cared about anything but their business majors, and this building is the proof.

“Cornelia’s office is on the third floor,” says Annette, already heading towards a staircase. “C’mon, I know the way.”

Sylvain goes to follow her, Felix already on her heels, but he startles as Dimitri’s fingers wrap around his wrist. His brow is pinched, concern tilting his lips down. After a moment, he lifts his other hand, placing his gloved palm across Sylvain’s mouth. He follows it with a press of his lips to the back of his own hand, making Sylvain blink, heat rushing through his face at the gesture.

“Be careful,” he murmurs, pulling back just to run his leather clad thumb across Sylvain’s bottom lip.

“I will,” he promises. “I’m going to fix this.”

“There’s nothing that needs to be fixed,” Dimitri says. “Just needs a guiding hand.”

“You’re a bad therapist, sweetheart.”

Dimitri makes a noise, looking disgruntled at that, but Sylvain ducks his head to kiss his thumb before he can pull completely away.

“It’s okay,” he says, half a sigh. “We’re all probably going to need a lot of therapy after this.”

Dimitri raises a single eyebrow. “‘ _Probably_?’”

Sylvain winks. “Wish us luck.”

A soft smile is his response, and he hurries away before Felix has a chance to yell at him for slowing them down.

Sylvain never had a need to walk through these halls in his time as a student. All of his classes were secluded in a newer building on the far end of campus, where there wasn't a lingering sense of other in the air. The building was one of the university's oldest, painstakingly built when the school was founded, and looking like it hadn’t been remodelled in nearly forty years.

Annette walks through the halls with confidence, clutching the bag over her shoulder with a tight fist, her feet sinking into the carpet without a sound as she walks. Felix is on high alert, a tense set to his shoulders, his eyes darting to and fro for any sign of other people.

There’s a gun at his back, tucked away under his heavy coat. Sylvain knows it’s not something Felix enjoys—he’s never enjoyed the violent side of his job, despite being proficient at combat. If it comes down to it, Sylvain knows the only way they’re getting out if Cornelia reacts poorly to their presence is Felix.

Sylvain’s felt uneasy since they walked through the front door, and the feeling only grows when Annette leads them from the stairwell down a hall. The entire building is devoid of the sounds of people. There’s only the sound of machinery, the muffled rush of air from the vents as the heater does its best to keep the building warm.

There’s a single door open, halfway down the hall. Annette gestures to it and they stop a few paces away. There’s a draft, sending a shiver down Sylvain’s spine, his hands curling into tighter fists in his pockets. The plaque outside the door is shiny, polished, reading Cornelia’s name and her titles.

Annie turns to both Felix and Sylvain, tilting her head in a silent question. _Ready_?

Sylvain wants a minute—wants to try to control the rapid pounding of his heart—but there’s no time for it. They can hear the clacking of keys on a keyboard just inside the office.

Cornelia’s awaiting Annette. Best not make her wait too long.

Annette lifts her chin, taking a breath, and slips into the open doorway. She gives a polite knock on the door, her smile tense as the sound of keys clicking stops. Felix touches his lower back, exhaling as Cornlelia Arnim greets Annie with a plain welcome.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” says Annette, bright and bubbly as she steps further into the room, out of the doorway.

Felix glances back to Sylvain just long enough to see him nod, as Cornelia speaks.

“It’s very rare for one of my past students to wish to come see me,” Cornelia drawls. “I can’t say I’m _too_ surprised, though.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t speak so soon,” Annie tells her.

Felix steps in behind her, his hands relaxed at his sides. Sylvain watches his eyes sweep the room before he crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. For a moment, the only noise between them is the wooden screech of a chair scraping against the floor.

Sharp eyes flick to Sylvain. Felix inclines his head. Sylvain takes another deep breath before moving to stand beside him in the doorway.

The office is well decorated, neatly organized. Sylvain’s eyes don’t have the time to take in the bookshelves, or the landscapes hung on the wall. His eyes go straight to the woman standing just behind the grandiose desk.

Had he _not_ known she regularly dipped her hands into child experiments and killing people, Sylain might have thought she looked beautiful.

Cornelia Arnim looks like she’s been plucked out of his younger fantasies about hot librarians, her pale hair brushed behind her shoulders showcasing the strain the front buttons over her chest are under. Her face is coated in makeup, her eyes looking unnaturally bright due to the dark liner she wears, lips painted a pale peach that almost matches her hair.

Cornelia’s expression morphs from confusion to one of surprise as her eyes land on Sylvain. Her eye twitches before a mask settles over her, neutral except for the slight sneer in the curl of her lip.

“Well. _This_ is certainly surprising.”

“I’m sure you know why we’re here, then,” states Annette.

Cornelia’s eyes flick to her, narrowing, before they go back to Sylvain. She raises a perfectly threaded brow, her disgust slipping through the mask by the second.

Sylvain takes in a breath. He thinks about Dimitri, the hope in his expression when he brought up that their experiments might be reversed.

“I think you already know what I want to ask,” Sylvain says, his voice weaker than he wishes for.

Cornelia huffs an aborted snort, rolling her eyes. When she speaks, her voice drips with false sympathy. “What? Have you decided your Crest Stone isn’t fun?”

“Is that what you did?” asks Sylvain. “Put a—put a magic stone in me?”

Cornelia _laughs_ , a haughty sound that grates against his ears. “‘Magic stone,’” she echoes, amused. “You should be grateful that your body even accepted the Crest Stone. It took many trials before yours for us to find one that would accept the process.”

"You actually _embedded_ a stone within him?" Annie asks, voice hitching.

"Not a _stone_ ," Cornelia states, waving a hand lazily, as if Annette's nothing more than a nuisance, her irritation at repeating herself slipping through the mask. "A _Crest_ Stone."

"A Crest—.” Sylvain stops, lips twisting at her repetition. “Forgive us for not seeing the difference between a stone and a _stone_."

"A _Crest Stone_ holds powers that your little mind couldn't figure out even if you dedicated your life to studying them."

"But yours could," Felix states, voice laced with fury.

"Of course." Cornelia tilts her head, smiling, her eyes sharp. "If only your father wasn't a coward, you'd have the world at your fingertips, too."

"Oh, sure," says Sylvain. "That's definitely what I've got, huh?"

“You embedded a Crest Stone into him.” Felix sneers the words, earning Cornelia’s glare. “Is it removable?”

“Removable?” She scoffs. “You want your power _removed_?”

“It’s not a power,” says Sylvain. “It’s a curse.”

“A ‘curse.’” Another scoff, this one harsher as she lifts a hand to cup her cheek, sitting back in her chair. “This is why you’ve come here? To ask me to remove the ability we spent _years_ perfecting?”

“No,” says Sylvain. “All I wanted to know was if it was removable—which, based on your reaction, seems to be the case.”

Her displeasure twists through the mask of her expression, cold fury contorting her features. “Do you think you’re clever?”

“Not at all,” Sylvain says with a shrug. “I’m just a pie-maker.”

He ignores Cornelia’s expression, mind starting to whirl at the research they’re going to have to do to figure out how to get this damned stone out of him. He wonders if he’s going to have to pay Annie overtime.

Before his thoughts can get too off track, Felix moves, stalking forward, his arms still crossed. He subtly puts himself between Annette and Cornelia and Sylvain reaches a hand out to tug her back so she’s standing at his side.

“You obviously know me,” Felix drawls. His tone is steady, the subtle fury in it fueling the strength. “I just have one question for you. I don’t give a damn about anything else. What did you do to my brother?”

Cornelia hums. “Your brother?” she questions. She taps a finger against her chin as if she has to think about it. “Oh, that’s right. His name was Glenn, wasn’t it?” Her eyes drag over Felix. “You’re quite like him, aren’t you?”

“I’m my own person,” Felix growls. “Stop deflecting. Just tell me what you did to him.”

“Me? Personally?” She hums, the smile on her face one that would probably terrify children. “I did nothing to him. Honestly, you should look to your father if you want answers.”

Sylvain can see the way Felix’s shoulders tense, the way his hands drop to his sides, curling into fists. He takes one step forward, keeping his distance from Cornelia, but he still catches her gaze when he moves.

“Are you trying to imply his father had his brother killed?” he asks.

Cornelia tries for faux innocence, the smile she gives slightly less creepy, but still unsettling. None of the expressions she has fit, her mask completely cracked, crumbling in front of them with every shift. “Perhaps if he hadn’t tucked his tail between his legs and fled, he would have gotten answers _for_ him.” Her eyes dart back to Felix. “And then your brother wouldn’t have started _snooping_.”

Felix exhales a low breath, straightening. “You had him killed because he got too close,” Felix accuses. “Is that what you think you’ll accomplish here? You think you’ll be able to have us killed like you had Rufus Blaiddyd killed?”

Cornelia huffs a delighted laugh, though the sarcasm lacing through it comes out clearly. “Oh, no, not at all. After everything we did to make sure Sylvain _didn’t_ die, I could never let our experiment be killed.” Her expression hardens in the blink of an eye. “You and the little one, though? That’s easy enough.”

Sylvain tenses as her eyes go from Felix to Annette, who Sylvain can see straighten in his peripheral. He looks to her, seeing not an ounce of fear, just pure determination.

"Annette. Get out of here."

"Oh, that's not going to be possible," Cornelia says, slowly rising to her feet. "It's cute that you think so."

"Annie," Felix growls. "Go. _Now_. Get back to Dedue."

Sylvain moves to step in front of her, putting himself between Annette and Cornelia, standing next to Felix. Her hand presses gently against his back before withdrawing completely. He hears her feet scuff against the floor before he hears the sound of her footsteps, fading as she sprints out of the room. Felix’s own hand goes to his back, to the gun at his belt, and his eyes narrow at Cornelia.

Cornelia’s face twists in fury, a scoff falling from her painted lips. "Do you think you're clever?" she snarls. "You forget, I know exactly how to drop you to your knees."

Felix draws his gun. "I'll take bullets beating magic any day."

" _You_ might."

Her hand glows, the tips of her lacquered nails looking like claws as she shoots her arm out. Sylvain feels a tug, deep within his gut, and all at once it feels like he's been punched.

He feels like he’s been hit with a truck all at once. His breath comes out in pained bursts, his eyes starting to water as it feels like every bone in his body is splintering apart, blood crackling hot through his system.

He hears the panicked call of his name, as if he’s been dunked underwater, held there to drown. He’s _choking_ , he realizes, on spit or his breaths or both. He falls to his knees, the white hot pain of hitting the ground making him see stars as he grabs at his stomach. He feels _something_ in him, ripping out of his body.

There’s a sharp, loud echo, a clap of thunder that makes his already ringing ears sting.

Another call of his name, this time from multiple angles. Was it his eardrums bursting, or is it more than just Felix calling out for him? He can’t tell. He can’t see anything through his tears, vision tinged red, just an odd bright glow near where he’s hunched—and then suddenly everything’s dark.

**.**

Sylvain wakes slowly, consciousness slipping through his fingers like water. At one point, he manages a groan, his throat sore and dry. A hand presses to his forehead, pushing sweat damp hair away from his face, the callouses unfamiliar, the touch gentle. There’s murmuring around him, voices colliding with one another in a fog before clarity strikes.

The hand retracts. Someone asks if Sylvain’s woken yet.

He groans again.

“ _Are_ you awake, Sylvain?”

Dedue’s voice, further away from the hand that had touched him. He hears Dimitri’s voice, garbled, quiet, and then Dedue’s voice is closer as he asks after him again.

Sylvain’s eyelids are too heavy to open. He makes a non-committal noise, struggling for a moment before he gives up.

He’s warm, under what feels like ten pounds of blankets. Dedue makes a quiet noise in his throat.

“You scared us quite a bit,” he murmurs. “Thankfully, it seems like your fever’s broken.”

“Feel like shit,” he manages, voice thick, tongue heavy.

“Water will help,” says Dedue. His arm slips under Sylvain’s shoulders, strong and steady while Sylvain’s head lolls to the side, thunking against solid muscle.

“Where’s ‘Mitri?” he asks, his words still slurred. “Thought I heard him.”

“You did. He’s just gone outside to let Annette and the others know you’ve woken. They’re just in the living room.”

At that, Sylvain tests opening his eyes, squinting through bleary blinks. Dedue maneuvers him to sitting back against the pillows. He’s in his room, back home. The lights aren’t too harsh, nothing blinding except the blur of Annette’s bright hair as she bursts into the room. Her lips are twisted, cheeks puffed out, her eyes shimmering as she marches forward. She looks like she wants to be angry instead of sad.

She has every right to be angry, he supposes. He doesn’t even remember what happened. Cornelia did something to him after they sent Annie away, and—

“You can yell at me, if you want,” Sylvain offers, more of a rasp than a statement.

Annette huffs, fists balled at her side. He hears the sound of water being poured and tilts his head away from Annette to see Dedue at his side. Annie makes another huffed noise, scrubbing her hand over her eyes.

“I’ll yell later. Dimitri said your fever’s gone.”

“Didn’t realize I had a fever,” says Sylvain. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“A truck?” Dedue asks.

Sylvain nods, his hands shaky as he reaches for the glass Dedue offers. His grip almost slips, so Dedue keeps the glass steady for him as he guides it to his lips. As soon as he does, he exhales, tongue darting out to catch the drop that spilled over his lips. “Either a truck, or thirteen horses.”

Dedue hums, looking slightly amused. “Thirteen?”

“If it felt like twelve, I’d probably be able to drink water by myself.”

Dedue smiles, softly. “You have no visible injuries, nor any internal bleeding. Whatever Cornelia did took its toll, but did not leave any lasting physical damage.”

Sylvain reaches for the glass again, making a grabby motion with a wiggle of his fingers. Dedue helps him drink a little bit more of the water before he’s able to speak again.

“Do we know what she did to me?”

Annette shakes her head. “Not really. We have our guesses, but—”

Behind her, in the open doorway, a shadow falls. Dimitri shuffles into the entrance, hands wringing in front of him. He smiles sheepishly, looking like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. He looks nicer than Sylvain imagines he looks right now, but, then again, he always thinks Dimitri looks nicer than him.

There’s a moment—a singular heartbeat of silence. Dedue rises from the chair he had been sitting in, giving Sylvain a small smile as he leaves, taking Annette’s hand in his own as they slip by Dimitri out the door.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” Dimitri says, shuffling in. His hands are still clasped in front of him as Dimitri settles into the chair, and Sylvain’s own curl into the bedsheets.

“How long was I out?”

“Not long,” says Dimitri. “Barely half a day.”

Sylvain tilts his head towards the window. The pale light through the blinds tells him it’s mid-morning.

“The bakery’s closed today, too, huh.”

Dimitri chuckles softly. “Just opening late. Dedue and Annie prepped everything this morning before Claude came over.”

As if it’s second nature, Dimitri reaches out, not an ounce of hesitation in his movements. It takes Sylvain a moment to realize what he’s doing, Dimitri fingertips almost touching his own hand where they’re still bunched in the bedsheets before his mind catches up and Sylvain’s anxiety skyrockets as he throws himself out of reach, almost falling out of the other side of the bed.

“Sylvain— _Sylvain_!”

Dimitri’s hands reach out, as if to steady him, and Sylvain recoils. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice hitching. “Stop, you’re not wearing gloves—!”

“Sylvain, I don’t—”

“We don’t know what Cornelia did, but I doubt she picked that moment to reverse embedding that damned stone in me!”

He's breathing too fast, chest aching with the quickness of his heart, thundering in his chest. His face is hot, throat constricting, fear clawing its way up his spine, the ache in his body tripling as his blood pounds through his veins. He can barely hear over the rush in his ears, the low gasp of his uneven breaths.

Dimitri’s still sitting in the chair, his hands splayed as they’re still outstretched. His lips are parted, brow pinched as his wide eye takes him in.

“Cornelia’s dead, Sylvain,” Dimitri tells him, after a long moment where they just stare at one another. “She’s dead.”

Sylvain shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes. Even if Cornelia was dead, that didn’t mean anything. He tells Dimitri as such. Whatever they had done to him would outlast every single one of those people involved. Cornelia was just a stepping stone. If Dimitri tries to touch him—

If _Sylvain_ tries to touch Dimitri—

His knuckles are starting to ache. He releases the blankets just to push a hand through his hair. His breathing is coming steadier as he talks through his panic, but the anxiety still has its claws dug deep into his chest.

He keeps shaking his head, insistent, the mantra of _no, no, no_ , falling from his lips as he clutches at the sheets in his hands. He can’t risk it. They can’t risk it. Sylvain’s babbling, his words running over each other. He can’t lose Dimitri. Not again. Not after everything.

Dimitri moves lighting fast.

Sylvain barely catches sight of him shifting, barely notices the way the dark knit sweater he wears gets closer, but then—

_Then_.

Warmth engulfs his hand on its way down from his hair. Fingers wrap around his own.

It takes Sylvain a moment to process what he’s looking at. Takes him even longer to follow that hand up the wrist, along the forearm that’s been bared by Dimitri pushing his sweater sleeves up to his elbows. His eyes reach Dimitri’s face. There’s still concern there, but less than there had been before. The smile that’s twitching at the corner of his lips is gentle, shy, his breath parting his lips on a shaky sigh.

Dimitri’s touching him.

Sylvain feels like he’s been punched. Like the air in his lungs has been strangled out by fists winding around him.

Dimitri squeezes his hand. Warm, the callouses on his fingers reminiscent of the hand that had pushed his hair away.

Dimitri is holding his hand.

Dimitri is holding his hand with no barrier between their skin.

Dimitri’s holding his hand and is still _breathing_.

Sylvain’s exhale trembles between his lips. “ _Saints and Seiros_.”

“It’s alright,” Dimitri tells him, smiling. His fingers tighten again. “We’re alright, Sylvain.”

“You’re—you—.” Sylvain can’t find words, stammering syllables as his eyes keep dropping from Dimitri’s face, to their hands, and back again. “You—.”

Dimitri reaches his other hand out, slowly, cautiously, palm up. Sylvain’s entire body trembles, his hand shaking as he extends it, stopping just short of placing it in Dimitri’s. The fear that still courses through him, despite Dimitri’s strong and solid grip on his other hand, makes him hesitate. Dimitri doesn’t let him dwell, taking it in his grasp. He smooths his thumb over his knuckles.

“I’m alright,” he repeats.

Sylvain nods, scarcely believing it. “Wh—? _How_ —?”

“Cornelia removed the Crest Stone,” Dimitri tells him, voice soft. “Felix believes she thought it might kill you, but she removed it. With it gone, well—” He gives a tiny, shy smile, lifting their hands.

Sylvain exhales again, his chest feeling like it’s collapsing. He drops his gaze, but there’s no telling if there’s any noticable difference between the old tee shirt he’s wearing. Dedue had told him anyway that he had no visible injuries, no internal bleeding, but still.

“What happened to the stone?” he asks.

“Felix still has it.” Dimitri’s thumbs are still brushing along his knuckles, a motion Sylvain doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing. “He wants to destroy it, but he says that’s not his choice—it’s yours.”

“I don’t care what happens to it,” says Sylvain. “Tell him to toss it into the ocean. I don’t even want to look at it.”

“I’ll let him know,” Dimitri promises. He pauses, head tilting as he considers something. A soft, hesitant smile curls his lips, a rosy blush colouring his cheeks as he squeezes Sylvain’s hands.

Sylvain thinks that might be it—that he’s noticed they’re still touching and will let him go, but Dimitri doesn’t. Instead, he adjusts his grip, bringing Sylvain’s hands up. His fingers tighten as he brings Sylvain’s fingertips to his lips, pressing gentle, featherlight kisses to them.

Oh.

_Oh_.

It’s just occurred to Sylvain that’s a possibility.

Dimitri catches his expression and he blinks, startling. His lips part. “Sylvain, I— _whoa_ —”

Sylvain lunges, not bothering to voice his desires as his arms wrap around Dimitri. The chair topples, sending them both crashing to the floor, Dimitri’s hands trying to steady Sylvain as he lands on the rug. Sylvain doesn’t care, his hands roaming over the skin that’s on display—not enough, not _enough_ , but his mind tells him to focus on something else entirely as Dimitri’s startled exclamation turns into a breathless laugh.

Sylvain immediately swallows the sound up with his lips.

Dimitri tastes better than Sylvain could’ve dreamed, tastes better than he ever dared to imagine. Sweet and gentle, the distinct taste of his vanilla lip balm ever-present as Sylvain licks his way into Dimitri’s mouth. Dimitri’s hands grip his hips fiercely, fingers flexing as he parts his lips and lets Sylvain kiss him as he pleases. There’s a moment where his fingers loosen their grip before moving to brush the hem of his shirt. He slips his hands underneath, pressing his hands to the skin of Sylvain’s sides and he’s warm, warm, _warm_.

Sylvain shudders against him, his own hands moving from where they’ve tangled into the silk-smooth strands of Dimitri’s hair. He drags them down, caressing along Dimitri’s cheeks, feeling the warmth of his blush under the whorls on his fingers.

Dimitri’s still sprawled on the floor, Sylvain half-straddling his thighs. He feels like it’s where he belongs, drawing his mouth away from Dimitri so they might stand a chance to catch their breaths. Dimitri’s cheeks are flushed, eye bright and happy. He presses a chaste kiss to Sylvain’s lips before letting their foreheads gently knock together.

His breaths ghost across Sylvain’s lips, warm and wet. A reminder that Sylvain will never grow tired of. He’s breathing. He’s alive.

Dimitri’s _alive_.

One of the hands that have snaked up his shirt pulls away. Sylvain doesn’t have a chance to mourn the loss, too busy just enjoying feeling Dimitri’s skin under his hands without anything separating them. Dimitri’s hand reaches up to curl into his hair, thumb stroking along the nape of his neck as he guides Sylvain’s face down enough for Dimitri to start to pepper kisses on his face. Sylvain can’t stop the smile that stretches his lips as Dimitri showers him in light presses, following a pattern only he can see. His lips brush along his cheeks, trail down the bridge of his nose, press against his chin and jaw.

“Feel better?” Dimitri murmurs, lips moving along his skin.

Sylvain nods. “Better,” he tells him, breathless. “I want to kiss you.”

Dimitri chuckles. “You already have.”

“I want more.”

Dimitri hums, but before he can allow Sylvain or deny him, a throat clears from the hall.

“Are you two _done_?” Felix calls. “We have things to discuss.”

Dimitri tenses, going from pleasantly flushed to a brilliant shade of red as his blush splotches down his neck. Sylvain can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up his throat, dropping his forehead to Dimitri’s shoulder before nosing into his neck. _Later_ , he mouths against Dimitri’s skin.

The fingers in his hair curl tighter ever so slightly, an answer, a _promise_.

Sylvain pulls back and Dimitri’s hand drops with the movement, smoothing down between his shoulder blades. He can hear Felix’s foot tapping impatiently, just around the corner from the doorframe, but he doesn’t shout at them again.

It gives Sylvain ample time to lean forward, brush a kiss against the scars of his right eye. Dimitri shivers and Sylvain settles back, sitting on his thighs.

“Alright,” Sylvain breathes. “I still feel like I got run over, you’re going to have to help me walk.”

He laughs, bubbly and happy. “It would be my pleasure.”

Dimitri shifts him to help Sylvain rise to his feet. Sylvain wobbles like a newborn colt, legs shaking, and Dimitri slings his arm around his waist, holding him steady. He tilts to press a kiss to Sylvain’s cheek, then one to the tip of his nose.

“Careful now,” Sylvain warns. “I could get used to being spoiled.”

Dimitri beams, pressing one last kiss to his lips. “Good. You deserve it.”

" _Disgusting_ ," comes Felix's voice. "Sothis, Sylvain, _hurry up_."

Dimitri’s hand squeezes against Sylvain’s waist, his grin bright, infectious. Sylvain can't help himself, leaning forward to kiss him again, causing Dimitri to laugh, pulling away from him.

"Later," he promises.

That one word makes Sylvain’s heart feel close to bursting. They have time now. They have all the time they could want, all the time to makeup for lost years and what they couldn't have after Sylvain woke Dimitri up.

"Later, then." Sylvain nods, his smile bright. "I'll hold you to it."

**Author's Note:**

> my wonderful partner [Terri](https://twitter.com/terrifiedmouse) created some stunning [pieces of art](https://twitter.com/TerrifiedMouse/status/1367223924363321347) for this work. I owe huge thanks to her, as well as [Nena](https://twitter.com/nenalatawrites) and [TK](https://twitter.com/cntrlvaneau/) for helping me piece together this entire thing by reading it over.
> 
> Come chat with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616/)! ♥


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